


don't make me hear your death cry

by authoressjean



Series: the changed future [10]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And introducing Dernwyn and Fili's littlest one, Angst, Assassination Plot(s), BAMF!Dwalin, Bilbo!Feels, Dwalin!feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of a sense, M/M, Protective!Bilbo, Thorin!feels, protective!Thorin, you know the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 'leave me your fears'.</p>
<p>A cave-in during a mine check takes from Thorin his hearing. Even as he strives to live with what may be a permanent loss, trouble begins to brew amongst some of the Council members that soon grows from a simple annoyance to potential treason: an assassination plot.</p>
<p>And hearing or no hearing, Thorin will NOT allow anyone to hurt his kin or his husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Woo, multi-chaptered fic! *does a dance*
> 
> Um, angst. Hello, angst. Lots of hurt/comfort to be found here. Everyone's a BAMF because yeah. They are.
> 
> Also, this is your first peek at Dernwyn and Fili's first child, Holdred. There will be a fic before this to truly introduce you to the wee babe. But for right now, my muse has been focused on the annnnnngst.
> 
> My friend Dani got a first peek at this. Um. She keyboard-flailed a lot. There was a wailing and gnashing of teeth just after the first few paragraphs.
> 
> I'm not sorry. Y'all should know what I do by now.
> 
> Also, I have no medical knowledge at all. None. I only know a tiny amount about concussions and read a book once about how head trauma winds up doing some strange things. Like amplified hearing, which is what happened to me. (Bat ears!) Or the loss of hearing completely. So. Apologies if you're a medical nut and I'm doing this wrong. I don't want to hear it. It's fanfic about DWARVES and HOBBITS. We're here to have fun, y'all. ;)

The arrow was pulled back to brush against a cool cheek. Lips pulled in careful breaths to steady hands and ready the aim. Everything seemed to pause, to wait, for just one moment.

Wood and feather flew through the air, striking its target true. There was not a sound as the body dropped to the ground. Silence drifted everywhere for a long moment.

Then, finally, the screams erupted as the tragedy was realized. People rushed forward, but the archer knew: it was too little, too late. The aim had been without equal, the shot perfect.

And in the end, Bilbo Baggins was still left on the ground, lifeless, a single arrow through his heart.

 

_Two weeks earlier_

What had once been empty of life was now filled once more with endless workers and dwarves who’d come for a home in Erebor. The mines were thriving, the market constantly exchanging with Esgaroth and the rebuilding Dale, and every dwarf he saw smiled. Life in Erebor was good. The years rebuilding had been good to them all.

What no one had told Thorin was that there was also a lot of political nonsense and inanity to make it all happen.

“Bilbo tired of the Council yet?”

“Bilbo’s tired of _me_ being tired of the Council,” Thorin said dryly. Dwalin snorted.

“Aye, I figured. You’ve been a bit of a piss lately.”

Thorin gave him a hard shove towards the cavern wall, ignoring his friend’s laughter. It was the first time he’d seen Dwalin as a friend and not just his Captain of the Guard in far too long. When Dwalin had offered to escort him down to the mines, a relief had settled into Thorin’s soul. He could use a friendly ear.

And, perhaps, a dry wit to help.

“Not that terrible, I hope,” Thorin said, but there was a tension building at the thought. Had his anger and frustration begun to come out as cruel? Had he injured someone’s heart grievously? Mahal, had he hurt Bilbo-

The smack upside the back of his head would have been instantly denounced by the Council as a crime worthy of death. How dare someone strike their King?

All Thorin did was rub the back of his head and glare at Dwalin. Dwalin glared back. “Stop it. Mahal, Bilbo was right: you’re too wound up and too damn worried about everythin’. Mountain won’t fall if you take a break for a bit.” Dwalin paused. “And your husband’s _fine_. More worried about you, says you come back late and tired. Obvious to see, now. Least, from my perspective it is.”

It was a reprimand even while it was an offer of comfort. If Dwalin had seen it and was commenting on it, then it was very obvious indeed. But not too obvious to those who did not know him well enough, which meant his subjects wouldn’t see it yet.

His subjects. Three years after being crowned, and it was still odd to think of his fellow dwarves that way. Bilbo told him it made him a good king by holding that view and not thinking himself above them. Thorin held to his belief that it was _Bilbo_ that made him a good king.

“There’s still so much to do,” Thorin said, pausing to look up. All of Erebor stretched above him, hundreds and thousands of feet from the earth. There were miners and tinkers working above him, many pathways flooded with working dwarves. The noise, while intense, was soothing. This was the sound that Thorin remembered from his childhood, his many years running wild with Dis and Frerin behind him.

There was only a faint twist of his heart when he thought of Frerin. He didn’t let himself think too often of his brother, for the grief was still strong. But here, in Erebor, he found himself catching glimpses of his brother in the hallways, the old rooms, the hot springs where they’d run amok.

“Thorin?”

Thorin shook himself. Dwalin wasn’t glaring at him anymore: Dwalin looked downright _concerned_. “Go home,” Dwalin said firmly but gently. “Go back to Bilbo. Not jestin’ with you. You’re miles away and too damn tired to drag yourself back.”

“Years away,” Thorin admitted. Dwalin frowned. “Frerin.”

Dwalin nodded slowly. “I can imagine. There’s a lot of ghosts that run through the mountain, whether they perished here or not. Legolas said he’s felt ‘em, their memories. Offered to look with Ori for a blessing of some sort to settle ‘em.”

Thorin would never have put stock in it, but he’d wandered the Paths of the Dead, and he’d seen those who didn’t rest. The thought of his kin wandering aimlessly, a silent memory, left him sick to his stomach. “If they will,” he said, and Dwalin nodded.

“Good. Now go home-“

“I’ll just pace,” Thorin finally said, agitated for no reason. That was all he’d been, lately: agitated and frustrated and unable to do anything about it. He wondered if this was why his grandfather had turned to the gold: it had been a comfort for something to not demand anything of him, but to only give pleasure instead.

Thorin didn’t need gold for that. He had a hobbit with a curly mop of hair whose only request was for Thorin to take care of himself and, sometimes, to fetch them both a cup of tea. Or to stay abed, just a little longer, amongst the furs and his husband’s sleepy smile.

Perhaps he did need to go home.

“One mine, and that’s it,” Dwalin said firmly. “Then you’re home to Bilbo. M’not crossin’ a hobbit, let alone _Bilbo_. Learned my lesson the hard way.”

In spite of his frustration, Thorin grinned. “You were sick and should’ve been resting. Bilbo tends to get…upset when those he cares for don’t take care of themselves.”

“He yelled at me in front of the entire _Guard_. Like I was a wayward child. Last time I got scolded it was Balin who did the scoldin’, and it was in these very halls.”

“Last week, then?”

Dwalin growled and punched him in the arm. Thorin finally laughed, feeling some of his tensions ease. Only when he stopped did he finally try and soothe his friend. “If Bilbo had thought for a moment that… _scolding_ you would lead to a diminished respect from your Guard, he would never have done it. If you will recall, he scolded the rest of your Guard even more than he did you.” And what a sight it had been: a small hobbit, fury in his eyes, yelling at a group of weapon-laden dwarves for letting Dwalin be there when he was obviously so ill.

It had made the gossip rounds of Erebor, thanks in part to Bofur and Nori. Kili and Fili hadn’t helped by embellishing just how much fear had been in the eyes of every Guard.

Actually, they hadn’t embellished all that much, now that Thorin thought of it.

“You ever tell him?”

“What, how his scolding still rings in your ears?”

“About Frerin.”

The words pulled Thorin up short, so close to the mine’s entrance. Now that he thought of it… “I must have,” Thorin said, but his memory pulled nothing to him. Had he truly never spoken of Frerin? “Dis must have.”

“Maybe. He might want to hear it from you, though.” Dwalin sighed and rested his hand on Thorin’s shoulder, a firm grasp that had kept him steady many a time before. “I wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t spoken of it. He wouldn’t, either.”

“He’s too forgiving,” Thorin muttered. Always quick to forgive, but it had done his husband more harm than good until after they’d been married. He was still ready to forgive insult and injury, no matter how slight or grievous, or who from. And that last one shouldn’t have mattered so much, but Thorin knew that a few dwarves had no care for Bilbo, whether he had saved Middle-Earth from Sauron’s destruction or not. Bilbo bore it with far more grace than Thorin did. Bilbo was his _husband_ , the one Ringbearer, the greatest burglar of all, _his husband_. That alone should have settled any disgruntlements. 

“Aye, ‘specially with the Council,” Dwalin agreed. “And us. You should still tell him.”

He should, and would. “After the mine,” he said, and made it a solid idea in his mind. “I’ll tell him about Frerin.”

Dwalin clapped him on the back with a soft smile he usually reserved for Ori or children. If anyone could understand how Thorin felt, it was Dwalin. For after the battle of Moria, it had been Dwalin who had found him kneeling beside Frerin’s lifeless body. It had been Dwalin who had been uncharacteristically gentle with him, kneeling and enfolding him in his embrace until Thorin had stopped shuddering. It had been Dwalin who had helped him to his feet and called for help bringing Frerin’s body back to where they would bury the dead.

And when Thorin had had to tell Dis of all the lives lost in the battle, it had been Dwalin who’d stood beside him and held them both as they’d wept.

The mine itself was cool, cooler than the others. It was almost a relief, given the long royal coat that Thorin now had to wear. Even Dis had encouraged him to wear what he wanted and not what was considered traditional. He’d married a hobbit, for Mahal’s sake; tradition wasn’t exactly a necessity. Now, feeling how much the cool air of the mine left him breathing easier, he wondered if perhaps he could not have two royal cloaks, one for the warm days, and this cloak for the winter ones.

It most certainly wasn’t winter now. Even Bilbo, used to the warmer air of the Shire, had started taking his vest off when in their chambers, leaving him in only his light, white shirt and his trousers.

And thinking of Bilbo dressed like that, sweat drenching his curls and making Thorin want to run his fingers through them, would get him nowhere. He nodded to the foreman of the mine who bowed deeply in return. “How go the mines?” he asked.

“Well, your majesty: we hit a trouble spot of a rocky nature yesterday, but my best team worked it hard. Aye but they were done quick enough.”

Good. Less things for him to deal with. He wandered further into the mine, watching the stone surface illuminate with precious stones and golden veins. Nothing extravagant, nothing truly full of riches here. Perhaps one of the business dwarves that Gloin told him so much about would be interested in owning a private investment. There was no need for Thorin to have to maintain all of the mines as royalty. His grandfather had loaned out the mines, but selling them to someone else made more sense.

The mines were tended to by his people. They deserved to be owned by his people.

“Thorin!”

He’d felt the rumbling half a second before Dwalin yelled for him. But it was shaking the walls now, rocks tumbling around him. Thorin grabbed a nearby miner who was running too slowly and pushed him forward towards the exit. “Go!” Thorin shouted.

The entire ceiling gave. The last thing Thorin saw were the large rocks coming down in front of him, and then there was nothing.

 

When he came to, everything was dark. Thorin shoved at the rocks above him and felt a few shift. That was good news: that meant he could get out.

After a long time digging, light finally began to stream through. He could feel the rumbling of larger stones being moved, and then at last the bright shine of lamps and candles poured in. He winced and tried to adjust his vision, and was rewarded with the sight of his nephews, Dwalin, and behind him, Bilbo. All of them were speaking at once, but none could be heard over the rumble of the stone. When the stone finally stopped, Thorin reached out for Bilbo, who desperately took hold of his hand. “I’m all right,” he promised them, then froze. His nephews were still speaking, but not a word of it reached Thorin.

His own voice hadn’t reached him. Nothing could. He moved to Bilbo, panic stirring in his gut, and found fear reflecting back at him. Bilbo said a word, but nothing came to his ears. When Thorin didn’t answer, Bilbo’s fear only increased, as if he’d confirmed that something was very wrong.

And it was very wrong. So wrong that Thorin didn’t have a word to describe how wrong it was, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to _hear it_.

Mahal, he couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything. How was he supposed to rule without his hearing? How was he supposed to lead when the world was silent, when he couldn’t hear those around him, when he couldn’t hear Bilbo, his husband, he couldn’t hear Bilbo’s voice, would never hear it again-

Hands grasped his face and forced him to focus on Bilbo. His husband still looked terrified, but his eyes gleamed with purpose. When he spoke, he seemed to do so slowly, and Thorin realized he was over-emphasizing his words. No, just one word, one Thorin knew well. _Thorin_.

Thorin nodded. “Can you hear me?” he finally asked, unable to dispel the other fear: that his voice had been taken as well.

Bilbo nodded, and Thorin let out a sigh. At least there was that.

Bilbo tapped his cheek again, catching his attention. He pointed to Thorin, then mimed pulling him out. They would get him out. He nodded, suddenly so weary that all he wanted to do was collapse back beneath the rocks. His mind couldn’t even begin to grasp fully what had transpired, what it would mean. The panic in his gut kept churning, leaving him feeling ill.

A familiar hand caught his shoulder, and Thorin looked to Dwalin. Dwalin spoke his name, determination set into every line of his friend’s face, and Thorin nodded. Beyond him were Fili and Kili, both of them looking just as set as Dwalin.

He was alive. He could speak. He would get out from under the rocks.

Perhaps it was Miner’s Ear, he thought suddenly. When the miners went down with exploding powder, many would come back up, unable to hear for some time, sometimes a few minutes, sometimes a few days. But their hearing would always return. Perhaps the rockslide had done just that.

He would be fine. He breathed and focused on Bilbo’s hands caressing his face as Dwalin, Fili, and Kili began to dig him out.

He would be fine.

 

“It’s not Miner’s Ear.”

Thorin wouldn’t have even needed Ori to transcribe Oin’s words: Bilbo was certain that the looks on everyone’s faces would have said it all. He kept his hand on Thorin’s shoulder, firm and strong, when Thorin wilted on the stool at the news.

“Are you certain?” Balin asked.

Oin glared at him. “They’re not buzzin’, lad. Ears buzz when it’s Miner’s Ear. He’s said there isn’t a buzz to be felt or heard, and his ears are perfectly still. It’s not Miner’s Ear.”

Ori began to transcribe it, but Bilbo gave a quick shake of his head from behind Thorin, and Ori quickly began writing something else, to keep Thorin from worrying. _You’re sure your ears don’t buzz?_ he wrote.

Thorin sighed. “No, there’s no buzzing, no feeling of a vibration, nothing at all. I don’t even know if I’m speaking to you or if I’m just putting air in my lungs.” His words had a slight slur to them, slight enough that Bilbo was certain only he’d picked up on it so far. You had to be close to hear it, and while everyone was crowded in, Bilbo had firmly taken his place by Thorin’s side and not allowed anyone besides Oin near. Thorin felt caged in and out of control as it was, and as well meaning as the company was, he wasn’t about to let it get any worse.

Dis hurried into the room, Dernwyn right behind her. The slamming of the door behind them made the floor tremble, enough that Thorin looked up to see them. “What’s going on?” Dis demanded. “All Fili said was that Thorin had been hurt.”

“Deaf, actually,” Bilbo said, grateful that he was behind Thorin where his husband couldn’t see them. There were only so many times Thorin should have to know they were explaining what had happened, again. “One of the mines collapsed and took his hearing.”

“I know you’re speaking,” Thorin cut in, startling them. “I can feel the vibrations when you talk, Bilbo. What’s going on?”

Bilbo blinked, surprised. He kept his hand on Thorin’s shoulder all the same. “We’re explaining what’s going on,” he said, and Ori dutifully transcribed it. “We’re not leaving you out, simply sparing you from having to read it all again.”

Thorin sighed and nodded, and he looked so defeated that Bilbo tightened his grip. “Tell him we’re here,” Bilbo said to Ori. “We’re here and we’re not leaving.” _And that I love him._

The words were written quickly, read even faster, and everyone nodded in fierce agreement when Thorin looked up. He turned to Bilbo after a moment, and Bilbo gave him the best smile he could. His Thorin, his whole world silenced. This hadn’t been like his old uncle who’d gone deaf slowly and accepted it. This had been an accident, and to have a sense stolen from you, taken for no reason at all, there was nothing Bilbo could say or do to make it better.

But Thorin put his hand over Bilbo’s and offered a sad smile. “I love you, too,” he said softly.

Bilbo ignored the others and pressed a kiss to his husband’s lips. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured, forgetting for a moment that Ori couldn’t have heard him to write it down. Before he could repeat it for Ori, however, Thorin nodded. His eyes were on Bilbo’s lips, and Bilbo said it again, more slowly this time.

His uncle had been decent enough at reading lips, but had still relied mostly on the motion language. Perhaps Bilbo could show him what he remembered and knew. He reached out and brushed his hand through Thorin’s hair, trying to keep him grounded and calm.

He’d barely brushed his hand past Thorin’s ear when Thorin hissed and jerked away from him, pain clouding his features. “What’s wrong?” He pursed his lips at himself when he realized his mistake. Of course Thorin couldn’t hear him.

Oin came forward, pulling Thorin’s hair away from his head. Bilbo stepped around and winced when he saw the wound. It was dark and jagged, and Bilbo could easily imagine the stone that had struck him going deeper, splitting his skull completely. He clutched at Thorin, forcing himself to breathe. Thorin was alive, he was fine. 

It still helped when Thorin leaned back into him and Bilbo could feel his chest moving with each breath he took. Couldn’t hear him, couldn’t even see him, and yet Thorin still knew what he needed.

They didn’t need to speak with words. They’d understood each other by a simple gaze for years now. A touch would speak in much the same way, Bilbo had to imagine.

“Quite the blow,” Oin said, and he wagged his finger at Thorin. “Should’ve told me!”

“I was more focused on my hearing. I didn’t honestly feel it,” Thorin admitted after Ori had transcribed. He raised his hand towards the wound. “How bad is-“

“NO!” everyone shouted, and the effect should’ve been lost on someone who couldn’t even _hear_ them. But Thorin still froze, eyes wide as he stared at the company who’d taken a sharp step forward as if to stop him. Bilbo carefully reached out and put Thorin’s hand back by his side.

“You don’t want to do that,” he said, his voice more calm than before. “Trust me.”

After that had been transcribed, Thorin carefully lowered his hand back to his lap. Oin began prodding at the wound, and really, there was no need to touch that closely. Bilbo forced himself to take a breath, _again_. Oin knew what he was doing. He was a much more advanced healer than Bilbo, and honestly, he was acting like a mother hen, clucking at her chicks the instant they did anything wrong.

Considering how Kili had burst into their quarters just a few hours ago, panting out the words ‘Thorin’ and ‘mine collapsed’ and ‘could be dead’, Bilbo felt he was entitled to feeling a little overprotective. Seeing Thorin, bleeding and panicking when he couldn’t hear, still trapped under a horrible amount of stone, hadn’t helped either. When they’d finally gotten him out, he’d clung to Bilbo and trembled, refusing to let go until Dwalin had helped him rise to get him to Oin. The sight of Thorin, his beautiful, strong, capable husband, reduced to a shaking mass of fear and pain-

All right, so he wasn’t going to let his husband anywhere out of his sight anytime soon. He could accept that. And Thorin would as well, if he knew what was good for him. He’d just have to deal with Bilbo fussing.

“Must’ve been quite the rock,” Nori said, wincing at the sight. “Could’ve been your whole head. Could’ve taken your whole ear.”

The memory didn’t so much as trickle down as it did suddenly spring to mind from the almost forgotten past. “That’s it!” Bilbo exclaimed, startling Ori, who’d been transcribing his brother’s words. “That’s it!”

“That’s what?” Kili asked. “Uncle?”

Bilbo moved around until he could see Thorin face to face. He’d nearly forgotten about that day as a child. A horrible day it had been, at the time, but he was never more grateful for the memory than he was now. “When I was a lad, my cousin slipped in the shallow part of the river and cracked his skull on a rock,” he explained. “Blood, tears, the whole works. It was dreadful. Worst of all, the strike took his sight and his hearing.”

Thorin looked ill at the thought of losing _two_ senses and not just one. Bilbo pressed a warm hand against his husband’s cheek, still smiling. “Not two weeks later, he was back playing in the creek, sight and hearing restored.”

“How?” Fili said, staring. “What did you do?”

“Was it a medicine?” Kili asked.

“A draught?”

“Was it Elven?”

“Enough,” Thorin demanded. Apparently he hadn’t needed to hear his nephews to know they were rambling right over Bilbo. “Let him finish.” Ori didn’t even bother writing down what they’d said.

Bilbo grinned. “We didn’t do a thing.”

“Nothing,” Thorin said incredulously. “What, it simply…came back on its own?”

“A bruise, deep within,” Bilbo explained. Oin’s eyes widened with understanding.

“Of course! Didn’t notice the wound because it hadn’t bled out and matted your hair. You bled _inside_ , lad, bruised your head a bit. Enough pressure to cut off your hearing. Mind if I try somethin’?” And Ori had barely managed to transcribe his words before Oin pressed on the side of Thorin’s head, between the cut and his ear.

Thorin scrambled away, clutching at his head. “Oin!” Dis hissed while Bilbo caught his husband and held him.

Oin looked far more pleased with himself than he should’ve. “Bruised,” he said. “Bilbo’s right: it could go away on its own.”

“Could?” Dwalin said, the first he’d spoken since he’d pulled Thorin out from the mine. “Could?”

“Can’t guarantee anythin’,” Oin said gently. “And I’m terribly sorry about it. But I’ve seen bruised heads before, and some have diminished a sense or two. Bilbo’s got the best hope we can think of: could be a temporary thing.”

Bilbo tried to keep his worry from his face, but he didn’t quite manage it in time. Thorin raised his head after the pain had settled and looked to him first. He didn’t even glance  to Ori for an answer. “It’s not that, is it,” he said quietly.

“It _is_ ,” Bilbo said, firmly enough that Thorin would understand him by reading his lips alone. “It might _not_ be, but it _is_.”

He had to hope it was. For himself, as well as for Thorin. Thorin could live without his hearing, of course he could. He would still take meals and hold Council meetings, stupid things that they were, and he could watch Fili and Dernwyn’s children grow. He could still rule Erebor. He could still love Bilbo.

But to lose a sense would be devastating. And if there was a chance that he could have his hearing back, Bilbo had to cling to that, for his husband’s sake and for his own.

“What did your cousin do?” Dernwyn asked. “What helped speed the process of healing?”

“Rest,” Bilbo said firmly. “Rest and cool cloths and good food. There was a tea his mother gave him, some herb that she swore would help with the swelling.”

“Tea and good food for healing: there’s a notion I never would’ve expected from a hobbit,” Bofur said with an easy grin, and Bilbo threw a nearby towel at him, inciting more laughter from the company. Thorin gave a small smile when he read the transcription, and Bilbo leaned his forehead against his husband’s.

_I love you. I love you and I’m not leaving you. We’ll get through this together_ , he tried to say with his gaze.

Thorin gave a small nod, just one, but his smile grew a little. _I know_.

They’d get through it together.

 

“You know, it’d be easier to see and speak with him if you were inside instead of out here in the hallway.”

Some days, Dwalin truly enjoyed Bilbo’s company for his quick wit, his caring, and his perceptiveness. He was glad to have the hobbit as a true friend.

And then there were days like today where he wanted to shove him into a small hole not even he could get out of.

“Maybe I’m not goin’ in there,” he growled, crossing his arms. Wasn’t like Bilbo knew he’d been standing outside the door for twenty odd minutes now, glaring at the wood that separated him from his friend, his king.

“You just like admiring doors? You’ve been staring at it long enough.”

_Damn_ the hobbit. “Got news for him, you can take it to him,” Dwalin said curtly, finally looking up at Bilbo.

It was worse than he’d thought. Bilbo didn’t look smug or reproachful. He looked _sympathetic_. He knew. He had to know.

“You need to speak with him, Dwalin.” The tone was soft and tender, more than he deserved.

“You can give him the message sure enough-“

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Mahal’s beard it wasn’t,” Dwalin snapped. “I told him to go upstairs and back to you, because he was doin’ that thing you said he was, driftin’ off and thinkin’ of other things, too tired to even stand on his feet but too agitated to settle. Then I told him he could do one mine, that was it. Just the one mine, then I’d get him back to you.”

And hadn’t that been the absolute worst thing he could’ve done. His king, his _brother_ for all intents and purposes, had disappeared under an avalanche of rocks and stones and hadn’t answered a single shout from Dwalin. No, he’d been too busy saving a miner to worry about himself.

“And if Thorin hadn’t gone down there?” Bilbo countered, but he was still too damn gentle about it. “Dwalin, he saved a miner’s life. The miner swore he’d have died if Thorin hadn’t shoved him towards the exit. He got himself tangled up in a mess someone else had left behind, and it was Thorin’s shoving that pushed him out of the mine. He would’ve been right under the rocks and probably died.”

It felt like being scolded in front of the Guard again, except this time, it was worse, because Bilbo was trying to make him _feel better_. And Dwalin had no right to feel better about this. “You should be fumin’ at me,” Dwalin yelled. “I about damn near got Thorin killed! If I hadn’t insisted he do the one mine, he wouldn’t have been caught, he’d still have his hearin’!”

“And if you hadn’t been there, Thorin would’ve done _all_ the mines, and no one would’ve had the strength of arm and voice to start hauling rocks and calling for help,” Bilbo shouted back, apparently done being gentle. “You saved his life, he could’ve _suffocated_ , Dwalin! But because you moved as fast as you did, he’s still alive and probably wondering why it takes me so long to wander down the hall and call for dinner!”

“That’s what you told him?” Dwalin couldn’t help but ask incredulously.

Bilbo snorted. “What else what I supposed to tell him? That his friend was standing outside the door, scowling at it like the wood had done him a personal offense?”

He wasn’t even going to ask how Bilbo knew he’d been there. It wasn’t worth the time or effort. “I shouldn’t face him,” he said, his voice sounding as defeated as he did. “Nearly got him killed.”

“Believe it or not, we’re both concerned about you. We were, even before Ori came around and told us how quiet you’ve been.”

He should’ve known his husband was in on the plot. Ori looked sweet and innocent, but under that knitted cardigan was a spine of steel. It was one of the things he loved most about his scribe. Still, tattling on him to Thorin and Bilbo wasn’t exactly a nice thing to do. What had he done to Ori?

“Don’t blame Ori,” Bilbo warned. He caught Dwalin by the elbow and hauled him forward before Dwalin could even protest. By the time he caught his feet, Bilbo had already flung the door open to where Thorin was sitting at the table, reading papers by the fire. The movement of the door must’ve caught his attention, and Thorin looked up, frowning slightly when he caught sight of Dwalin.

He didn’t look injured. His hair was pulled back a little from his right ear, in deference to the wound there. But Dwalin knew that he held an injury past anyone’s healing except for time and mercy. He swallowed and tried to pull his arm back from Bilbo. Mahal, he wasn’t an errant _child_.

Bilbo let him go, but only stood there until Dwalin moved forward. Thorin was watching him with a calculating gaze. Too knowing for his own good, too. He should’ve just gone to spar with his guards or something, and then Balin had given him the message and of course _he’d_ known too.

A sketchbook was pushed into his hands, much like the one Ori carried everywhere with him. “We’re still working on reading lips,” Bilbo said. “Write to him.”

He made to protest, but then Thorin pinned him with that look, and there wasn’t much Dwalin could do against that. Despite not having his hearing, Thorin still had the look of a king, firm and unrelenting. The only other person Dwalin knew of who could look like that was Bilbo. And even Thorin didn’t say no when Bilbo looked that way.

Dwalin took the pen from the table Thorin sat at and began to write. _Balin’s got a message for you about the Council. They want to meet regarding the possible purchasing of market space and several mines._ He didn’t even flinch when he wrote the last word out.

“I’ll meet. They’ll have to know eventually about the loss of hearing.” Keeping that close to the chest had been one of the swifter moves Fili had ever done. With Kili beside him, they’d spoken of how Thorin was recovering from the cave-in, and mentioned nothing of the loss of hearing. The word had spread through Erebor like a wildfire.

He moved to give the book back to Bilbo, but Bilbo resolutely crossed his arms and refused to budge. Throwing it at him seemed like a prime idea. “That’s not why you’re here,” Thorin said. “Dwalin, what else is there?”

Dwalin swallowed. “It’s nothing-“

“Write,” Bilbo said stubbornly. Thorin leaned forward, waiting.

Fingers tight enough to nearly break the pen, Dwalin wrote in the swiftest script he could. _I’m sorry you went into_ was crossed out and replaced by _I’m sorry I told you to_ and replaced again with _I’m sorry you_

Thorin caught his hand the third time, his pressure gentle but insistent. “What happened was not your fault or mine,” he said. “We had no idea that the cave wasn’t secure.”

Dwalin shook his head resolutely. “No, I should’ve-“

“It wasn’t your fault,” Thorin said, pursing his lips. “And if this is the reason you’ve been avoiding me for the past two days, it’s a terrible excuse. If I’m angry about anything, it’s at the thought that you have let this settle in your gut for so long.”

Silence fell. Dwalin felt something almost like relief threatening to choke him, lodged too firmly in his throat. “M’still sorry,” he said at last.

“Don’t be,” Thorin said, and for a moment, Dwalin almost dared to hope that somehow, Thorin had heard him. But the slight hesitation between Dwalin’s words and Thorin’s was as telling as where Thorin had looked when he spoke: at his mouth. Reading lips; he _was_ getting good at it.

“Gettin’ good at it,” he said, careful to enunciate. It only took another moment of hesitation before Thorin gave a small nod.

“Trying to. Bilbo’s a patient teacher.”

Dwalin caught the paper and wrote down his next words. _I don’t want to know how you two read lips._

Thorin punched him in the arm, and as soon as Bilbo caught sight of what he’d written, he punched Dwalin in the other arm. Despite being bruised – and he never should’ve taught Bilbo how to fight, he had a mean right hook – Dwalin still felt better than he had the past two days.

The Council, Balin thought privately, was one of the most ridiculous things he’d ever had to deal with.

Oh, half of them weren’t bad. A great number of them were there for the same reason Thorin and Balin were: to ensure the future of Erebor. And while they disagreed on a great number of things, they were, for the most part, willing to put aside those differences – such as which was greater, the sapphire or the ruby, and which ale from the brewery was this week’s favorite – for the good of Erebor and its king and people.

Unfortunately, they usually wound up in spats, such as this one.

“The market space should go to a guild!”

“And if it does, what then for the winter? The men have asked for a greater, more permanent space within the mountain-“

“And why should we give it to them? We’re well equipped to go into Esgaroth and retrieve things from there!”

“The men are taller than the snow that’ll come down in the winter; they can make the trip more readily than we can.”

“We aren’t weak!”

“We’re not tall, either!”

“Enough!” Bilbo said, carrying his voice without shouting. The other dwarves grumbled but settled back. “Thank you. Ori, have you transcribed the… _conversation_?”

Would’ve been better deemed an argument, but Balin appreciated his tactfulness. What they would’ve done without the hobbit, he didn’t quite know, but he was grateful for the tactician Bilbo had become. It made things easier with a hobbit who knew politics like the back of his hand, thanks to his kin.

Plus, it left Balin more able to watch the typically amusing faces that followed any of his announcements. Three years doing this, and one would’ve thought they’d have gotten used to Bilbo and his manner of placating all parties as best he could _without_ calling for battle…

“I have,” Ori said, as authoritative as Bilbo. Sitting next to Thorin, Ori looked noble himself in his Royal Scribe robes with his beard and mustache coming in nicely. But in his eyes there was still that inherent gentleness and kindness that Balin knew was simply Ori.

Dwalin had made a good choice indeed. Even now, standing behind Thorin, it wasn’t the king his brother was gazing at, but his husband. Balin hid a smile and focused on Thorin.

His cousin king seemed to be weighing choices on the paper before him, but after no more than a few moments looked to his husband. “And what are your thoughts?”

It was the quickest and best way of telling Bilbo, _I would have your choice as mine._ When Thorin sought guidance, he would turn to Balin for advice, or to Bilbo if Balin could not be there. Both would guide him as best they could. Even Fili had become a great wealth of knowledge and ideas, young and bright, and Balin would be proud to see him on the throne. These were who Thorin turned to when he wanted to hear opinions.

When Thorin wanted an answer, he would turn only to Bilbo.

And, as he always did, Bilbo had an answer ready for him. “Let the men come into the mountain and give them stalls in the best spots of the market, but give them only a few. Demand the same courtesy in their own market. If the weather becomes a problem, we have rooms within the mountain we can give them, and I’m certain Bard would allow us our merchants similar housing conditions if snow becomes a factor. We can’t expect to trade with them if we don’t let them in. This way, those merchants who don’t do well will be moved out and new ones put in their places. It’ll keep the competition friendly but strong.”

As Bilbo spoke, Balin found himself watching the hobbit. His friend moved his gaze briefly to various members of the Council, but truthfully his eyes were only for his husband. He enunciated more clearly than he usually did, yet didn’t slow down enough to let the others catch on. No one but those of their company probably knew what he was doing. Giving Thorin a chance to read his lips, and though Ori wrote it all down, Balin knew Bilbo’s gestures would go a long way with Thorin. They usually did.

It seemed Thorin had caught a significant amount of them, for he only glanced at Ori’s sheet briefly before nodding. “I concur. A healthy competition will encourage our own merchants to do their best and leave the best merchants from Lake-town to settle who will take the places on their own. I believe Bard will be amenable to this.”

Dwalin coughed. Thorin didn’t hear it, but Bilbo and Balin did, and they both shot him a sharp look before returning their attention to the table. Yes, they all knew that Bard would do just about anything for Bilbo, if asked. All these years later, and Balin privately thought the once bowman, now Ruler of Esgaroth, still held guilt for his part to play with the Arkenstone and how he’d turned Bilbo away. They were close friends now, and if there was ever anything to do with Esgaroth or the rebuilding of Dale that was to begin imminently, Bard would usually come himself, if just to see Bilbo and the company.

Bilbo could’ve asked Bard for his very bow, at one point, and Bard would’ve given it to him without hesitation. To ask for such a reasonable thing now, especially when it offered Bard a better chance of rebuilding Dale sooner, would be agreed upon within moments.

Muttering down at the other end of the table caught Balin’s attention, and he caught Dekir glaring at Bilbo. Balin couldn’t make out what the dwarf had said, but if Ori’s sharply inhaled breath and forced attention on his paper was anything to go by, it hadn’t been kind. Bilbo himself paid no attention to Dekir or his cousin Rutar, who were talking between themselves and glaring heatedly at the hobbit, but Bilbo’s lips were pursed in agitation and more than mild irritation.

It was usually how the meetings went. Dekir’s father, Mekir, was studied in the laws of their people to help with minor courts, though it had been less lately due to his loss of hearing. He was a kind dwarf who usually only scowled at Bilbo if for some reason the hobbit wasn’t being quite loud enough. Bilbo had tried to sit closer to Mekir to fix the problem, but Dekir had put forward such an offense against Bilbo that the hobbit had quietly just taken his usual place.

Balin clenched his fists under his table. There were few dwarves who held a slight towards Bilbo, and he honestly couldn’t fathom what bothered Dekir so much about Bilbo. Bilbo was more than fair to all the members of the Council, though some didn’t quite deserve it. Yet Dekir continuously undermined and belittled Bilbo when he could, giving snide comments always before Thorin entered the meeting. _Always_ before Thorin arrived.

Balin supposed that with Thorin unable to hear them, Dekir and Rutar had assumed they were free to speak amongst themselves.

The meeting didn’t go on for much longer than that. The Council all bowed to Thorin instead of giving their customary spoken farewells, in deference to his loss of hearing, and Thorin gave them all a long bow back before leaving the room. Balin followed the others, and a good thing too, for Thorin got no further than the royal hallway before he stumbled.

Dwalin and Balin caught him from the sides, Bilbo from the front, and Ori was thankfully able to open the doors to the main room for them. Once seated, Balin crouched in front of Thorin and frowned. He looked queasy. “Dizzy?” Balin asked, enunciating his word clearly. Thorin nodded wearily.

A small mug appeared so suddenly all of them started. Tauriel managed to keep her eye roll to a minimum. “It will help,” she said, and though her words were laced with annoyance, her hands were gentle as they helped Thorin take the drink. He gave her a nod of thanks before taking a sip. He paused and glanced at Tauriel. The elf glared at him. Thorin swallowed the sip down, then gave a full body shudder.

Nothing Balin wanted a taste of, then. “Still having headaches?” he asked.

Bilbo nodded as Ori furiously wrote their words. “It’s to be expected, with the bruising. As dreadful as it is, I’m taking it as a good sign.”

Thorin coughed, having completely drained the mug. “That is the most foul thing I have ever tasted, and I once caught an orc’s tunic in the mouth,” he said, and Balin would’ve sworn he looked to scrape his tongue. “I don’t want to know what it is, and I do _not_ want any more.”

“You’ll reconsider when you start feeling better,” Tauriel said knowingly, but she set aside the mug. “I was actually seeking your youngest nephew; he swore to practice archery with me today. I have a feeling, however, he’s playing with _his_ nephew.”

“How do you not play with Holdred?” Bilbo asked, giving her a look. “I’ve seen many a young child, and I can say with no bias at all that Holdred is one of the cutest I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“No bias at all,” Dwalin muttered. Ori took a break from writing Bilbo’s words to elbow his husband in the leg.

“Says the dwarf who sat and played with Holdred for hours upon hours and let the babe chew on his beard.”

Of all the dwarves Balin knew, no one could so quickly wring a blush from his brother as Ori could. “If I can’t handle a wee babe, shouldn’t be fit to lead the Guard,” he blustered, but his cheeks remained red.

The door quickly opened, and Kili hurried into the room, arrow and quiver thrown over his shoulder. His hair was a mess of tangled knots, and Balin grinned. “Sorry, Holdred,” he explained while pointing to his hair. “That and bumping into Dekir and his cousin. Remind me again how much longer they’ll be here? Because I’m done with them both.”

“You and everyone else,” Ori muttered. Balin frowned, recalling the quiet conversation Dekir had held in the Council meeting.

“Which reminds me: what were they talking about? In the Council meeting?”

Ori glanced at Bilbo, surprisingly enough. Bilbo finally gave a nod. “They kept talking about ‘the plan’ and ‘needing the right dwarf’. Among other things,” Ori couldn’t help but add, and Bilbo quickly took over.

“Whatever it is, it’s obviously not something they want anyone else privy to. And given their attitudes, I’m not keen on whatever it is.”

“They won’t let you sit near them,” Thorin said. “It’s obvious they don’t want you to know.”

“Won’t let me near ‘em, either,” Dwalin said. “Or Ori, or Fili.”

Now that Balin thought about it, it was quite clear that they’d kept themselves from the others in the Council quite deliberately. “It’d be a boon to know what they’re doing,” Balin said. “We’ve finally got peace and stability; I’d hate to see two young dwarves cause a ruckus.”

“Or worse,” Dwalin added grimly.

It was a terrible thought to think of. But when it came to the royal line and the future of Erebor, especially when thinking of all they’d gone through to get this far, it was best to consider the worst idea before the better one. It meant everyone got out alive.

“Kili, I want you and Fili to do your best to engage them; use Gimli to help, as he’s still young enough to perhaps not be viewed as a threat,” Thorin ordered. Kili nodded, and he and Tauriel both left. “Dwalin, have some of your guards tail them, if you can. Balin, you will have to be my voice in this matter, and Ori my ears.”

Dwalin gave a short nod. “Be more than happy to.”

“Wait a minute, what am I supposed to do?” Bilbo asked, having realized that Thorin wasn’t going to appoint him anything. “Stand around and do nothing?”

“Preferably, yes,” Thorin said once Ori had transcribed for him. As soon as Bilbo began to object, Thorin held up his hand. “I _know_ that they say unkind things about you, and if they truly have plans of a dangerous nature, I want you nowhere near them.”

“I can handle myself-“

“And I know you’re telling me you can handle yourself, and I know you can. I can’t hear to protect you anymore: please keep away from them. Please.”

Bilbo let out a sigh but moved to brush the marriage braid away from Thorin’s face. It always seemed like such an intimate moment when he did so, though he moved naught but hair. Yet it always left Balin feeling as if it were a private moment between the both of them that no one else should see. “You don’t need to protect me all the time,” Bilbo said quietly. “I can protect you, too.”

Ori held the paper out for Thorin to look at, but the king didn’t so much as glance at it. “I know,” he said, and Balin had a feeling that even if he hadn’t understood Bilbo’s words, he’d known the message behind them all the same.

Bilbo finally gave a sharp nod. “You and I’ll figure out how to handle the small courts system the way Mekir wants it so he can either return home or send his son back.”

“We could send him back now-“

“Mekir’s knowledge and wisdom is invaluable,” Bilbo told his husband after his words had been read. “And others would start prying into why he’d been told to leave. Besides, we have a chance to figure out what Dekir and Rutar have planned if they’re close by. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

“Close enough to strangle ‘em,” Dwalin added. Bilbo rolled his eyes but gave a quick grin.

“I’m not entirely certain that was the point of the age-old phrase, but yes, close enough to do that too, I suppose.”

Thorin huffed a laugh when Ori reluctantly transcribed their words. He looked less green already, and when he stood, it was without aid. The elves could be a prickly bunch, their two elves excluded, but they knew their herbs and healing. “In two days time, before the next meeting, we’ll meet here again and share what we know. The sooner we know of what they intend to do, the better for us.”

Balin secretly hoped that it was nothing dreadful. They had allies around Middle-Earth, firm trade agreements with the cities of Men, and Mirkwood was being taken back every day. Erebor was flourishing under her ruler and king, and never before had they enjoyed such prosperity, thanks to Bilbo’s tactful words and gentle nature.

Yet he had a terrible feeling in his gut that it was all about to be overturned.

 


	2. Hard truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin works on how to live with his hearing loss. And a joyous moment leads to a horrific realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who knows ASL (American Sign Language), I can safely tell you these are NOT the appropriate signs. I made these up myself. I just like playing with languages.
> 
> Y'all continue to rock my socks.

“I fear for Ori’s hand,” Thorin grumbled. “It has to be cramping something terrible with all the transcribing he’s done for me.”

In truth, Ori hadn’t so much as complained about writing for Thorin. But when Thorin had relieved him of duty just a few moments ago, he’d barely given a farewell before hurrying away. Perhaps Thorin could take a pad of paper himself to allow others to write their words for him, as humiliating as it would be. After over a week of writing and transcribing, Ori deserved a break.

A hand touched his face, and Thorin leaned into the familiar caress. Bilbo had a pad in his hand, but he spoke, and Thorin focused on his mouth. _Ori is lease to alp. Is all we cand oo._

He wasn’t an expert, but Bilbo’s gentle coaching had helped a lot. “He still needs a break, as helpful as he wants to be,” Thorin said. It was so strange to speak and not hear his voice. He could feel the vibrations in his chest and jaw when he spoke, but there was nothing when he spoke. No sound, no words, nothing at all. When he thought of it, when he allowed himself to think of it, he found himself terrified.

He took a deep breath. As if knowing his thoughts, Bilbo caught his head between his hands and pulled him in close, resting their foreheads together. He didn’t speak, simply shared breaths with Thorin. It was a comfort and, without Bilbo, Thorin didn’t want to imagine how things would be. His eyes burned for a moment, and he shut them swiftly. “Of everything I miss hearing, it’s your voice I wish I could hear above them all,” he confessed, his breath feeling like little more than a whisper.

With his eyes closed, it felt as if he were adrift in nothing, suspended in total darkness, cut off from life. Sleeping was hard, perhaps the hardest thing to do as part of his daily routine. Bilbo held him all the more closely at night, sleeping in such a way that it was his husband’s face that Thorin saw first upon waking. It helped, more than Thorin could voice.

Bilbo’s hands tapped twice on his cheek – _look at me_. Thorin opened his eyes and found Bilbo smiling at him. He tugged on Thorin’s braids gently and led him to the seat in front of the fire. Once Thorin was seated, Bilbo knelt in front of him. The fire behind him cast a soft glow to his curls as Bilbo wrote swiftly on the paper, making his hair appear to be made of gold. The strands looked soft, so soft, and he ached to run his fingers through them.

He also found himself wishing to tell Bilbo about Frerin. Frerin would’ve adored his husband, much as Fili and Kili did. He tried to think of the right words to describe his brother, to speak the words that Bilbo deserved to hear.

His husband moved before he could. Bilbo finally finished writing and turned the paper to Thorin. _Hobbits often go deaf in their old age, much as Oin has. The language of motions is easy to learn. I’ll start with a common phrase._ He reached out with his hand, as if to shake in greeting, then quickly whipped it up to the side of his head. Thorin carefully repeated the motion, and only then did Bilbo reveal what it said on the paper. _Hello or Good morning, good afternoon, good evening._

Simple enough, though more complicated than Iglishmêk. The language of gestures was mostly known to only dwarves, however, so to learn the language of motions would help. He could do this. He would be fine. He focused once more on Bilbo’s hands.

Bilbo then taught him the farewell, a hand beside his head moving to touch his forehead before moving out in a salute. They were easy signs that Thorin soon saw as recognizable in nature, no matter who they were given to. Easy enough to remember, easy enough to give.

He wasn’t certain he deserved his husband, but he was grateful every day that Bilbo was there, that Bilbo was _his_.

Bilbo was moving again. Thorin focused his attention on Bilbo’s hands. Hand on chest, circle over the heart, fist that was held out to Thorin only to open into a cupped hand. Frowning, Thorin looked at his husband in askance.

Bilbo didn’t give him the paper. Instead, he did it again, slower. His hand rested briefly on his chest before circling over his heart, sliding into a fist, then moving it out to Thorin and opening his fist. He sat, patiently, his hand still offered before him, but reached for the papers by his side. He flipped the pad over for Thorin to read what he’d already written.

 _I love you_.

There was nothing Thorin could have said that would come close to what he felt. His Bilbo, his beloved, could still surprise him after the years they had spent together thus far. Though he was kind to everyone, Bilbo’s tenderness was something Thorin hoarded like Smaug had hoarded the golden treasury. Every smile, every touch, every gift of kindness that Bilbo poured out like rain from the skies, it came so readily and Thorin still wondered at how it could.

He would always be grateful for it. Always.

With slow motions Thorin repeated the sign, offering his palm out to Bilbo. “My heart is always yours,” he murmured. “Always.” And always would be, even after his body had long been resting in the tombs of his forefathers. He would take his love for Bilbo to the halls of his ancestors.

Bilbo smiled so brightly that Thorin wished he could hear Bilbo’s laugh, his cheer, just one more time. A word, even a stern one, a laugh, anything. He just wanted to hear his husband one more time. Mahal, just _one more time_. 

His hand slid over Bilbo’s, and they sat that way, holding on to one another, both of them wrapped in thoughts of the future that was now before them.

 

Fili would rather have faced his son with his worst drool than tell his uncles what he was going to. And Holdred could drool more than any other dwarf Fili had met. Honestly, he wasn’t certain where it all _came_ from.

When he entered the room, fortunately, there were others already there. Balin and Ori stood in front of the rest of the company, and Bilbo was ever present beside Thorin. That fact alone was probably why Thorin hadn’t lost his mind yet.

“Move,” Dwalin said from behind Fili, nudging him into the room. He didn’t look any happier than Fili felt, and he realized everyone’s faces were grim. Wonderful.

“Nothing,” Thorin said, translating their faces easily enough.

“Nothing,” Ori said, not even bothering to write his words down. “We have nothing.” He glanced up at Bilbo, but Bilbo gave his head a quick shake from behind Thorin, and Ori subsided with extreme reluctance. Fili frowned and started to ask, but wound up being interrupted by his mother flying into the room.

“Anything?” she asked, before taking a good look at everyone’s grim faces. Her shoulders sank. “Of course. That’d be too easy.”

“They’ve been as quiet as can be,” Balin confirmed. “Perhaps at the next meeting.”

Thorin let out a growl after reading the words Ori wrote down. “They know we’re watching them. That alone confirms that what they’re doing is less than savory.”

“That or they’re talkin’ about how jealous they are of Bilbo, landin’ you in the sheets,” Dwalin suggested with a shrug. Bilbo started coughing and didn’t stop until Fili came over to pound on his back. His uncle glared up at Dwalin with watery eyes, and Dwalin adopted his best innocent face. “What? Dwarves have needs, too.”

“Don’t bother transcribing, I don’t want to know,” Thorin muttered as Ori began writing. He shot Dwalin a look before turning back to Bilbo, who was still a little too red in the face for Fili’s likes. He was at least breathing now, though, no thanks to Dwalin.

It _had_ been funny, though. Fili couldn’t wait to tell Kili about it. And speaking of his brother…

“Where’s Kee?” he asked. He kept looking, but his brother was still nowhere to be found.

“Down below with Legolas and Tauriel,” Dis said. “I think he’s still hoping for a good gossip.”

“If he finds any, I’d love to hear it myself. When’s the next Council meeting?” Nori asked. “If they’re likely to speak, it’ll be then.”

“Tomorrow, first thing in the mornin’. Why, you want an invite?”

Nori snorted. “Not on your life, Captain. I’ve better things to do than listen to simperin’ dwarves whine about how to do things without doin’ them.”

Personally, Fili agreed: he hated the Council meetings. With Holdred still being so young at only a year and a half of age, he was allowed to avoid the less urgent meetings in order to stay home with Dernwyn. Even if it was his mother who mostly helped with Holdred, knowing far more about babes than Fili did. He could still help Dernwyn, and it was more than enough reason for him to stay out of the meetings.

Bofur leaned forward in his chair. “Whatever they’ve got plannin’, they still needed another dwarf, right? Got to be a rumor or talk of Dekir wanderin’ outside his usual ‘realm’, right?”

It was a simple enough idea. “Think you could find out who it is?” Dwalin asked.

Bofur gave a toothy grin. “Think I could. Nori, you willin’ to aid?”

“Be glad to,” Nori said almost viciously.

Fili was glad that the dwarves were on their side: he really wouldn’t want to meet up with Bofur or Nori in a side alley. Ever. 

His mother gave a swift nod. “If that’s settled, I’m going back to my daughter and grandson. Fili?”

“Bath,” he said. “I’d like to at least _try_ and wash some of the drool out of my beard and hair.”

Bilbo chuckled beside him. “You might as well not bother: it’s just going to get drooled all over again anyway.”

“See, that’s the argument I used as a child against baths, and the answer was typically-“

“No,” Dis said firmly. “Then again, I can’t remember a child who didn’t like baths as much as you.”

“Kili,” Thorin said, once the words had been transcribed, and both Dis and Dwalin shuddered. “Kili was worse.”

Bilbo slowly shook his head. “I don’t even want to know.”

No, but it was a story Legolas _needed_ to hear. Very urgently. Hopefully while Kili wasn’t around to beat on him for telling it. He decided to find Legolas, Tauriel, and Kili before taking his bath.

And hopefully the elves and his brother would have better news than anyone else here had.

 

He woke slowly, eyes drifting open in a more leisurely manner than he was typically allowed as king. There were no luxuries, as a king; the best furs and meat were compensation for the constant need to always be the king, to be in charge of all decisions, to be in high demand at every waking hour. Waking slowly was a gift, and not one to be spoiled.

Especially when he awakened to the soft features of his husband’s face. Bilbo smiled at him, and he leaned forward to steal a kiss just because he could. Bilbo’s lips were soft against his, and the kiss was a chaste one. If he stayed, he’d inevitably make the next one _not_ chaste, and they had no time for it. Still, he lingered at his husband’s lips, breathing him in. “Good morning,” he murmured.

Bilbo grinned. “ _Very_ good morning, I should think. It-“

The entire room _shook_ , ceiling to floor, and Bilbo shot up in bed. “If it was Fili and Kili, I’m going to string them up from their toes; the last time they made the rooms shake, the main room was a mess from all the feathers, and I thought Dernwyn was going to _kill_ Fili-“

But Thorin wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy letting the sound wash over him.

The _sound_. Oh Mahal, the _sound_.

“Thorin?”

Even as Bilbo gently tapped his cheek, Thorin turned to look at his husband. Bilbo’s brow was furrowed in worry. “Are you all right?” he asked, distinctly enunciating each word to catch the lips just so. It sounded a little stilted, not the easy flow that Bilbo typically spoke with, and he’d been speaking this for nearly two weeks now, all for Thorin.

“Thorin? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. He let out a laugh, and it felt _good_ to hear his voice, though his speech sounded a little slurred from not having heard it to correct it. “Nothing’s wrong. Say my name again.”

“What?”

“Say my name again.”

“Say…” Bilbo’s eyes went wide. “Thorin,” he breathed.

It was the greatest thing he’d ever heard. “Again,” he demanded.

“Thorin.”

“Again and again-“

With a joyous shriek Bilbo tackled him back into the bed. Thorin let out a long laugh, relief coursing through his veins. He could hear again, he could _hear_ , and Bilbo’s laugh was euphoric to listen to.

The doors to the room burst open, Fili and Kili somehow in front of Dwalin, both of them covered in dust. He didn’t really want to know what they’d done, because it was obvious that the shaking had been because of them. Right behind them were Legolas and Tauriel, and even with Holdred on her hip, Dernwyn had somehow managed to catch her sword all the same. They were armed to the teeth, ready to defend their king and his beloved.

It made watching their faces twist with complete bewilderment all the more amusing, and Thorin couldn’t have stopped laughing if he’d tried. “What’s so funny?” Kili finally asked.

“Your faces, for one,” Bilbo said, when he’d finally managed to find his voice. “Say something.”

“Somethin’,” Dwalin said immediately. “Why?”

“Because he asked you to,” Thorin said, and the dawning realizations left the others soon beaming from ear to ear. Ears that could hear, Mahal, he was never going to take it for granted again.

“You can hear?” Legolas asked. “Can you?”

“I can,” Thorin confirmed. “I don’t know how.” To be honest, everything was just a little loud, making it obvious that his ears hadn’t been used to hear in too long. “I have to assume the swelling’s gone down.”

Dernwyn lowered the sword when Holdred made to grab at it. “If you don’t let Oin confirm that, he’ll be testy,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “It’s hard to argue when someone can hear again, though.”

It was awfully hard to argue with the results. “Told you,” Bilbo whispered in his ear, and Thorin closed his eyes to revel in the sound. This day would possibly be one of the greatest in his life: his beloved’s voice returned to him after so many days of terrifying silence.

“This may prove to be in our favor,” Balin said, coming into the room from behind his brother. “Especially in regards to the meeting this morning.”

The Council meeting. Dekir and Rutar. “That makes it easier yet,” Fili said. “We simply don’t tell them that you can hear again. Seat Dekir and Rutar near to you-“

“And you can hear everything,” Bilbo finished. “Now _that_ sounds like a plan.” He glanced at Thorin with raised eyebrows. _Well? What do you think?_

Thorin gave a slow nod. “Agreed. I’m tired of waiting to see what they’ll do.” He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. Waiting another hour seemed a small price to pay.

Everyone cleared out, though not before Holdred had had a chance to give Thorin and Bilbo both _very_ sloppy kisses. His great-nephew seemed to be nothing but drool these days, though to hear his happy gurgles as Fili spun him in the air was a thing of joy indeed.

He was almost looking forward to the Council meeting and being able to hear everything again.

 

Playing deaf was actually a difficult thing to do. He’d nearly forgotten to let Ori transcribe things for him twice now, and Bilbo had effortlessly slid into explaining how well Thorin was learning to read lips. The Council had taken that as a good sign, and Thorin had only nearly slipped up once more.

Taking a seat beside Dekir and Rutar was the easiest thing, actually. Since the focus of the meeting regarded the law courts, Mekir’s specialty, sitting between him and his son was a show of respect. Their long oval table made it easier to see everyone’s expressions and faces save for Dekir’s and Rutar’s, being right beside him. They kept quiet for most of the meeting, surprisingly enough. Thorin began to despair that their plan wouldn’t work.

Then Bilbo began to speak with the Council members, and his voice was loud enough that, apparently, Dekir felt safe to begin conversing with his cousin. “All lined up?” he whispered to Rutar. Thorin pretended to shift in his seat ever so slightly, his eyes on Bilbo, his ears fully on the conversation to his left.

“Got ‘im. Good dwarf, good skills. The right dwarf for the job. Got no ties politically, makes it easy to pay in coin and be done.”

Thorin focused on breathing evenly. What they were speaking of sounded like…

“Good. We just need an opportunity.” Dekir leaned more into his cousin. “It’s harder to get royalty alone long enough to… _remove_ them. But it’s for the good of everyone if we can do it.”

Rutar sounded more hesitant to Thorin’s ears. At least, that he could hear: his heart was pounding, making it hard to make out what he said. “Are you sure we should be doin’ this? I know ‘e’s not the one we want in power, but…”

Him. They were after Thorin. He swallowed hard but felt part of him settle. This he could handle. He’d suffered Azog and Bolg and orcs and trolls. He could handle two young dwarves who thought he wasn’t appropriate for the throne.

“He’s got too much power as it is,” Dekir snapped in a hushed tone. “And he never should’ve been there. The very fact that he’s here is sickening. No, he must be removed. If it were in my power, I would’ve killed him myself already.”

“What you speak of is treason-“

“Him being here is treason enough. He’s an abomination.” Dekir took a deep breath. “But it’s planned and ready; we just need to finalize the details. Then, finally, Bilbo Baggins will be _dead_.”

Everything stopped. His heart, his breathing, everything came to a halt. All he could hear was a buzzing in his ears as his world stopped spinning. For a long moment he hung in suspended breath, his eyes focused on everything and nothing all at once.

Then air suddenly snapped back, and Thorin felt as if he’d been punched in the lungs and heart simultaneously. He didn’t know if he was breathing in a calm fashion, as if he’d heard nothing. He didn’t know anything except that the two dwarves beside him, the _traitors_ , were planning on killing his _husband_ -

He didn’t know when he stood, only that every eye went to him. Bilbo was staring at him with open concern, and Balin’s eyes were wide with trepidation, for fear that he would reveal his hearing. He raised his hand to his head, near his ear. “Forgive me,” he managed, and his voice was hoarse. “I must retire. My head is…”

Then no more words came to him, and Thorin finally just turned and walked away. Balin was explaining about headaches from the hearing loss, he thought, but all Thorin could focus on was the door, then the hallway, the stairs in the main common room, the next hallway, the final stairs to his hallway, then the door to their main room. The door to the private hall. The door to his room, their room, their bed before him where they’d held one another, where Bilbo had slept beside him, laughed beside him, even wept beside him a time or two. His beautiful Bilbo, his beloved who’d survived the dangerous trek across the earth to destroy a Ring he’d only picked up by chance, who’d faced orcs and death to save every soul on Middle-Earth, who smiled like the sun and somehow still managed to love Thorin every day that passed-

He didn’t know when he started throwing things or screaming in rage. When the room finally came back into focus, there were random shards, clothes, and furniture strewn about their space. He took in another breath, then another, his chest heaving with pure fury as he shook and tried to stop.

“Are you done?”

Thorin spun to the door, where Bilbo was standing. He leaned against the frame of the door, arms crossed in a casual manner, but his eyes held nothing but worry. “You haven’t flipped the table,” Bilbo continued, nodding to the piece of furniture. “But if you want to, I’d like to remove the fruit bowl first. Not because I care about the bowl, but the fruit’s still good.”

It was almost too much, to have Bilbo offering calm words, almost jesting in manner, after what Thorin had heard. It made him want to rage at Bilbo at how _casual_ he could be, even though he knew Bilbo couldn’t know what had been said, and then it made him want to wrap his husband in his arms and never let Dekir and his assassin anywhere close to Bilbo.

Assassin. Mahal, they wanted to _assassinate_ his husband.

“What did they say?” Bilbo asked, just as Dwalin, Balin, Ori, and Kili came careening into the room. Thorin had a hunch that Fili was off getting the others. This was obviously the ‘break’ they’d been waiting for. He felt as if he’d be sick.

“You,” he said, when he could speak, his eyes locked on his husband. “They want to kill you.”

The effect was instantaneous: a moment of stunned silence before everyone was shouting and yelling at the same time. It only got louder when Fili, followed by Dis, Legolas, Tauriel, and Dernwyn, came in, discovering from the others just what the plan had been. Everyone was calling out to have their hide, to skin them now, to make an example of them. All of their voices rose in a cacophonous roar.

All, that is, save for Bilbo’s and Ori’s.

Thorin stared at his husband, his heart stopping for the second time that day. “You knew,” he said, and somehow his voice silenced everyone else. “Did you know…?”

Bilbo shook his head. “No, I didn’t know they wanted to kill me. _That_ I would’ve volunteered, thank you very much. It just doesn’t surprise me, that’s all.”

Ori jumped in then, as if the words had been held back for too long. “They’ve been giving Bilbo a hard time, catching him alone in the hallways, calling him horrible things, saying even worse.” Bilbo began to argue, but Ori glared at him. “ _No_. I know Thorin knows about their snide remarks in the meetings, but how they’ve cornered you in the hallways is an entirely different matter. You told me not to tell anyone because of the Council and I shouldn’t have agreed to keep it quiet then, but they need to know, _Thorin_ needs to know!”

“Bilbo,” Dis said disapprovingly, sorrow etched on his face. “You should’ve said something!”

“You should’ve told me, would’ve skinned ‘em alive,” Dwalin said darkly. “Did they dare lay hands on you?”

Bilbo looked away, and that was all the answer they needed. Dwalin started cursing vehemently in Khuzdul, but Thorin could only feel fear and pain in his breast. “You should’ve told _me_ ,” he said, and he knew they could all hear the hurt in his voice. “How could you not tell me?”

“It wasn’t anything I couldn’t deal with,” Bilbo protested. “So I got shoved around and bruised a little-“

The noise from _that_ almost made Thorin wish he couldn’t hear again. It helped him focus on something else besides the fact that they’d hurt his husband, they’d _laid hands_ on Bilbo. Bilbo threw his hands up in the air. “I _dealt_ with it. All right? If it had gone past that, I would’ve said something, I swear! But we’ve been dealing with the Council and the markets and the courts and trying to worry about peace treaties and what did it matter, in the long run? He wasn’t going to be here forever, I could handle a little hurt. It wasn’t important.”

“There is nothing more important than kin,” Thorin swore, stepping forward. He wished now that Ori had told him, wished Bilbo had told him, and wondered how long this had been going on. Mekir, Dekir, and Rutar had been here for _months_. He itched to look Bilbo over himself, to ensure that his husband was really whole and all right.

He stopped in front of Bilbo, his chest still heaving to pull in air. “And there is _nothing_ more important than you,” he said. “Nothing. Don’t you dare insinuate that there is.”

Bilbo flushed but said nothing. Thorin finally couldn’t stop himself and caught Bilbo’s shoulder with his hand. He needed to touch Bilbo, to actually feel his husband breathing, feel his warmth and his life. How Bilbo could think that all of these negotiations were more important than he was…it made Thorin want to break something again.

He’d gotten so lost in ensuring his people were all right and enjoying Bilbo’s support that he’d forgotten to take time for them, just the two of them. And he knew that Bilbo would never see it that way, he would say it was for the kingdom and he was happy to help, and Thorin knew he was. But never again would Thorin take what they had for granted. Never.

“That’s why you waved Ori off, the other day,” Fili said, drawing his attention. Fili glanced at Bilbo, who seemed to hunch inwards guiltily. “Ori was going to mention it and write it to Uncle, and you told him not to.”

“I should’ve,” Ori muttered. “I really should’ve.”

“If you had, we never would’ve known that they were planning something this massive,” Bilbo argued. “They would’ve been brought up on other charges and we never would’ve known that they were intending on killing me.”

“Can’t kill you when they’re both in chains and locked up below,” Dwalin growled. “Next time you tell Ori not to say somethin’-“

“If they’re willing to kill me, Dwalin, _me_ , second only to the King Under the Mountain, what hesitation would they have killing Fili? Or Kili? How about Dis? Or Thorin himself?”

The room fell silent. Bilbo pursed his lips. “No. This is better, now that we know. Someone willing to go that far, you’re better off knowing how deep it goes.” He took a breath, and Thorin knew he was going to hate whatever his husband said next. “Which is why I don’t think we should do anything except wait.”

That was met with the rage and incredulity that Bilbo had obviously been expecting, if the way he’d braced himself was any indication. Balin finally held up his hands and brought disgruntled silence back to the room. “You’ve only a few moments to explain, laddie. And don’t think I haven’t an idea where you’re going with this.”

“We can’t do anything until they actually do something,” Bilbo explained, very pointedly not looking at Thorin while he spoke. It was probably for the best: Thorin’s fists were so tight he couldn’t even feel them anymore, and his brain was a swirl of anger and fear. “If we can lure them out, then we might actually have a chance of catching them-“

“While they try to kill you,” Kili deadpanned, glaring at Bilbo. “Are you out of your _mind_?”

“We’ll simply have to keep Bilbo surrounded at all times,” Legolas said. “Someone will always be with him.”

“Not too many,” Bilbo warned. “Or nothing will come of it.”

“Not too few, or they’ll achieve their goal,” Tauriel said in return. “We will stay by your side to ensure your safety.”

Bilbo gave a curt nod, then finally turned to Thorin, a wary look on his face. “Well?” he asked, as if not really wanting to know the answer. And really, Bilbo didn’t want to know his immediate answer, which was the loudest resounding _no_ that the kingdom would ever hear.

But Bilbo was right. Even if Thorin spoke and said he’d heard the two plotting to kill his husband, they would be met with animosity, accusations of falsehoods and why Thorin had lied to them about his hearing. It could lead to the start of a rebellion, if the people of Erebor had reason to believe their king would lie to them on a whim.

And Bilbo knew it. And for Thorin, for the good of the kingdom, he was willing to risk his life to catch Dekir and Rutar in the act.

Thorin swallowed. “You _will_ always have someone by your side. And it must be one of us, two if it’s Dernwyn or Dis, Kili or Fili. Agreed?”

Bilbo gave a quick nod. “Agreed,” he said, but he didn’t sound relieved. That was all right: Thorin wasn’t relieved in the slightest, either. This had all the potential to go horribly wrong.

And Mahal help the dwarves responsible if Bilbo was harmed in any way.


	3. To save a life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo offers himself up as bait for the assassin. But there's more to this simple assassination than anyone else knows of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun.
> 
> Um, there are feels.
> 
> Also, WARNING: mentions of smexin'. Nothing graphic. For real. Because I can't write it.

So it was that the longest four days of the Line of Durin and their company passed in tense, terrible moments. Life had to resume in a normal sort of fashion, leaving no one to guess that the royal family and their company were wary of an attack. Thorin went to a few more meetings with Ori and Balin, none with Dekir and Rutar. Dwalin put Nori on the trail of the two young dwarves, watching their every move from the shadows. And Bilbo?

Bilbo walked to the markets, spoke to the people, helped negotiate with the merchants of men who came regarding trades. He did everything he usually did. He just did it now with the sudden companionship of Kili and Legolas, who were both interested in how the trade system worked. Or Dori and Dwalin, one day, who walked with him across Erebor to show him the weapons guild that was set to begin accepting new apprentices soon. Bofur and Bifur spoke with him about toys for the dwarf children and Holdred as they wandered the markets, and whenever they could, the entire company kept him within their halls, and Thorin as well, citing that Bilbo worried for his husband and his loss of hearing. The people of Erebor understood.

Everything went well. Too well. For no attack came, no threat was made, and it only left them all the more anxious.

And when he could stand it no more, Bilbo finally went to his husband.

 

The room seemed to almost echo with silence upon Bilbo’s quiet but firm insistence. Everyone stared, various degrees of horror and fear on their faces. But Bilbo held strong, as strong as he ever did, and Thorin _hated_ him for being that determined right now. Because this, this he wouldn’t allow.

Fortunately for him, Dwalin spoke first. “M’used to you bein’ _intelligent_ , which is why I’m gonna ask you to repeat yourself.”

“I have to be alone-“

“Nope, sorry, all I’m still hearin’ is stupid,” Dwalin said, and Bilbo finally stopped looking so determined and started looking angry.

“And I’m telling you that it has to be done!”

“You cannot possibly think we’ll allow you to wander Erebor _alone_ to bait them into killing you!” Legolas exclaimed, his blue eyes wide. “We will _not_ risk you this way!”

“I’ll keep wearing the mithril armor under my tunic,” Bilbo replied sharply.

“And if they aim for your head?” Dis said incredulously. “Brother mine, if Thorin doesn’t lock you away, I will.”

“Then you can trail behind me, _far_ behind me, but people can’t walk with me anymore! It’s not doing any good! They’re not coming after me because I’m too well surrounded and protected. I have to be vulnerable for this to work. And believe me, they have to be frustrated enough at this point that the first sign I’m alone, they’ll take their chance. So, essentially, we’ll know exactly when it’ll happen.”

Thorin finally stepped forward, feeling vulnerable without his thick cloak on. He’d been dressing down for the evening, only wearing his tunic and trousers, and then Bilbo had come in with the others and turned his world upside down. “It won’t happen,” he said, nostrils flaring when Bilbo spun around with that look: narrowed eyes, pinched lips, brow stern. “We’ll find another way.”

“There won’t be another way,” Bilbo said, as if explaining to a child. “We have to give them a chance.”

“I’m ordering you-“

“Are you pulling _rank_ on me?” Bilbo asked incredulously.

Thorin took a deep breath. “If I have to, _yes_. I’d rather just ask you as _your husband_ -“

“And if I think _my husband_ is being completely unreasonable-“

“You cannot do this! I will _not_ allow it!”

“Everyone out, now,” Dis said. One by one the company departed, leaving Bilbo and Thorin to stare at each other, anger in their eyes but fear fueling it inside of them. Thorin could feel it, like a vise, cutting off his air and tightening his heart until it hurt as it pounded away furiously inside of him. Bilbo appeared to be nothing but fury and stone, but he was shaking visibly, and he was tapping his toes, a sure sign of anxiety. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Bilbo seemed to deflate all at once, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft, almost beseeching. “You know this has to happen,” he said.

“No.”

“Thorin, this is the best way to catch them. They haven’t done anything because they can’t! We haven’t give them the opportunity to-“

“To what? Kill you?”

“We’ll be fine, we’ll take precautions-“

“We’re gambling with your life!”

“It’ll be all right-“

“I will _not_ stand at your funeral!” Thorin shouted, and Bilbo fell silent as his voice echoed in the room. His husband had that gentle look on his face that Thorin loved but right then could not handle. It was a face he usually wore when people were being ridiculous, in Bilbo’s opinion, and right now, he was _not_.

“Thorin-“

“You would be so cruel as to make me bury you?” Thorin whispered, tears suddenly and violently welling in his eyes. They _burned_ , so much so that he reached out for the table to steady himself.

What he caught instead was the steady arm of his husband. Bilbo whispered something, perhaps his name, but his hand went up to cradle Thorin’s face. Through his blurred vision, he could make out the curls on Bilbo’s head and the braid that hung beside his ear. His marriage braid, the braid Thorin had put there, and the thought of sealing that beautiful braid away for all eternity made him feel as if someone had caved his chest in.

“You won’t bury me,” Bilbo said, but his gaze was twisted with worry now. “I promise.”

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” Thorin begged. Bilbo was warm beneath his bare arm, and he clutched at his husband until Bilbo was pressed against him. “Please don’t make me put you in stone forever.”

It would happen one day. He knew that. He just refused to think about that _very distant_ future. Not now. Not any time soon.

Bilbo pulled him down ever so slightly until he could press his lips to Thorin’s. “I won’t,” he said quietly. “I swear. I know the risk, and it’s one I’m willing to take. If they’re willing to murder me, it won’t take much more incentive to claim _your_ life. And if you think you wouldn’t be able to put me in a tomb, you don’t want to know what I’d do.” Bilbo’s eyes held a sheen to them now, and he straightened out his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “Tears and snot everywhere. I was bad enough when the mine fell in and I knew you were alive. Trust me, it’ll just get worse.”

The warmth of Bilbo was more than Thorin could keep himself from, and when the image of Bilbo, laid out in a crypt, a stone slab covering his face forever, came to mind, it was more than he could bear. He caught Bilbo’s mouth with his and licked his way in, his husband’s lips parting with a sigh. He slid his hands up until they rested against Bilbo’s neck, and he could feel the heartbeat that promised life. His thumb brushed over Bilbo’s ear, and he felt his husband shiver in his arms.

Kisses got sloppy and wet and each one burned when they parted for air again and again. Clothes fell away, the need to touch and feel warm, living skin more than they could fight. Whispers and soft moans spoke of promises, of a future where they could caress and kiss and hold each other every day. The bed was cool against their hot, bare skin, fingers digging tightly to have and to hold. Lungs tried to draw in ragged breaths, but it got harder to breathe, and the building release was blamed for stinging eyes and the gasps for air.

When they finally curled close together, taking deep breaths and watching the world steady itself, neither could let the other go. Thorin pulled Bilbo against him, and they fit together perfectly as they always did. Their legs tangled around the other’s, and the feeling of bare skin usually left a ripple of pleasure down Thorin’s spine. Tonight, it only left a frisson of fear. Tomorrow, Bilbo’s warmth could be replaced by cool skin, never to be warm again.

A brief protest was all he got when he lifted Bilbo to tuck him under one side of Thorin, who clung with everything he had. Bilbo let out a half-hearted grumble but subsided almost immediately.

Thorin didn’t know if Bilbo slept at all. He stayed awake all night until the first rays of light came in through the windows. Even then, he refused to move until Fili knocked on the door, telling him the others were ready, if they were.

It was time.

 

Kili was done with the day and it had barely started. He’d torn one of his favorite tunics in his scramble to get clothes on, he’d barely tasted breakfast – one of his favorites, too – and now his quiver was a mess from where he’d tossed it the other day after practicing with Tauriel. He quickly tried to put it to rights, already knowing he needed to get his boots on, wherever he’d put them when he'd tried to get the stone and dust out of them from his and Fili’s… _exploring_. Well, surveying. Well, all right, stalking Dekir and Rutar.

But he was following Bilbo today whether his hobbity uncle liked it or not, because Bilbo was _not_ going out there alone, so he needed to be ready and he needed to be ready now.

He frowned when his fingers met empty air. He glanced at his quiver and found it barely stocked. Of _course_ this was the day where he’d left his arrows down at the range instead of keeping them with him. He made certain the ones there were all right, because he didn’t have time to get down to the range to collect them, he needed to go _now_ , and he frowned when he realized a certain arrow was missing. He’d emptied his quiver twice at the range, he knew that, but-

Legolas’s arrow. He’d left Legolas’s arrow at the range. And _that_ was the last straw.

With a shout he caught the nearest thing – a chair – and hurled it at the wall. It shattered in a satisfying way, but it wasn’t enough for his aching heart. He caught something else, a pillow he thought, and threw it hard enough that it smacked against the wall. His fingers caught in his hair, tangling and snarling it worse than Holdred ever could, but it wasn’t enough, he had to leave, he had to stay and break things-

A hand caught his elbow, and Kili whipped around to find Legolas standing there, concern and too much understanding on his face. “I broke two arrows this morning,” was all he said.

Kili felt the urge to fight and destroy leave him, and he slumped against his husband. “What if it goes wrong?” he whispered, finally letting the fear in his heart have a voice. “Legolas, if they strike at his head, if they go for the neck or, or-“

“You heard what Balin said,” Legolas said. “They’re looking to make a statement. Sentiment will hold sway here.”

“We hope.”

“Yes, we hope,” Legolas said, and now Kili could hear the fury beneath the elf’s usually calm voice. “For their sake, we should hope. Because if Bilbo is truly hurt or killed, there will be nowhere they can hide.”

It shouldn’t have warmed Kili, to hear the fiery rage in his husband’s voice, but it was soothing. “We need to go,” Kili said, but he made no motion to move away from the sheltering embrace.

Legolas let them both linger for a long moment before he finally parted them, albeit reluctantly. “Where are your arrows?” he asked when Kili found his quiver again.

Kili sighed. “Left them at the range. They’ll be there.” They better have been, though he knew they’d be safe right where he left them. But leaving Legolas’s arrow was the hardest to swallow. That had been his first wedding gift, one of the most treasured things he owned.

He followed Legolas out from their chambers to the main room, where the others were gathered. No one said a word. Tauriel was waiting beside Dis, Dernwyn, and Fili, and Kili’s brother looked as sick as he felt. Bilbo looked pale but determined, and his other uncle looked as grieved as if Bilbo was dead already. And those thoughts were _not_ helping in the slightest.

“Ready?” Kili asked, unable to find any cheer for his voice.

Bilbo nodded. “Not too close.”

“Right, not too close.” He took a breath and pinned Thorin with a sharp look. _Close enough. I won’t let him get hurt._

Thorin seemed to slump a little in relief. Bilbo rolled his shoulders back and turned to the door. And really, there was nothing else to do except to follow him.

The hallways seemed too long and narrow, leaving it obvious that he was following his uncle. Bilbo moved down the long stairway into the large common space and began greeting those around him, who were all smiles for him. No one got too close, and Kili couldn’t see any glint of a sword or dagger anywhere. He moved to take a side path behind a long set of columns, one that would put him close enough to his uncle without following directly, and tried to make it appear as if he wasn’t watching.

“Keep your eyes to the path,” Legolas whispered. “Tauriel and I will watch for a time.”

Kili nodded and did just that. He was greeted with as much enthusiasm as Bilbo had been, and he managed to muster up a few false smiles in return. He could still hear those around Bilbo greeting him as he moved on through the room. Then they were stepping out into the largest cavern, where the floor dropped into nothing and only stone bridges wove through the air. There were few people on the walkways, most down below already working, and Kili let himself relax a little. Bilbo would head down to the market next, and _that_ was where he’d start panicking. Too many places to quickly gut the hobbit, to slit his throat, to-

Legolas caught him by the elbow and suddenly dragged him back into the main room. Kili couldn’t even get a word out before they were flying across the floor, hidden by the wall, moving straight to the walkway Bilbo had taken. “What’s wrong?” Kili hissed.

They pulled him up against the wall, and Kili twisted his head to peer out from behind the rocks. Outside, along the stone walkway, Bilbo was moving at a sedate pace, as if everything was normal. He gave nods of greeting to those who called out from other stone bridges over the cavern. Everything looked normal, and Bilbo was alone, no one near him to hurt him.

His heart stopped. Bilbo was _alone_.

His eyes whipped up above, where he realized Legolas and Tauriel were already looking. High above, in one of the alcoves, was a dark hooded figure. In his hand was a bow, arrow hanging loosely against it. It was only when he pulled it taut that Kili’s eyes widened.

It was _his arrow_. No, not one of the ones he’d crafted himself, it was the arrow given to him, it was _Legolas’s arrow_. It was unmistakably Elven in craft, a thinner arrow of perfection, the gift he’d been given, and it was so obvious that it wasn’t a dwarf arrow-

Kili felt his heart lodge in his throat. Tauriel moved to step outside the hall, and Kili grabbed her before she could be seen. “He’ll be struck!” Tauriel hissed. “ _Kili_!”

This was so much worse than just a simple assassination. And in that moment, Kili knew that he was possibly damning his uncle to a death, because he couldn’t save Bilbo on his own. But if he let what he _knew_ was going to happen actually happen, Bilbo would never forgive him. He caught Legolas by the arm as the elf made to step out onto the walkway. “Get back to the others, _now_ ,” he ordered. “You have to go.”

“Kili, what are you-“

“They took your arrow,” Kili said, and he thought he’d be sick. “They’re going to kill Bilbo with your arrow.” The archer was stringing the arrow now, and there could be other assassins already taking their places elsewhere in the mountain. “They’re going to frame the both of you for it.”

Because Bilbo wasn’t the only non-dwarf with ties to the royal family. There was Tauriel and Legolas, his beautiful, sweet Legolas, and-

“Dernwyn,” Legolas breathed, eyes filled with horror. “Dernwyn and Holdred-“

“Go,” Kili demanded. “Keep them safe.” _And yourself_ , he wanted to add, but Legolas and Tauriel were already flying back up to the royal chambers. He turned back to the stone walkway where Bilbo was halfway across. He glanced up: the arrow was pulled tightly. Maybe a chance to save them all, maybe-

“Uncle!” he called, hurrying out onto the walkway. Bilbo turned, eyes wide, because Kili wasn’t supposed to be there, and-

The arrow didn’t even make a sound as it struck Bilbo in the back. Bilbo’s face twisted in shock and pain, and for a terrible moment, Kili couldn’t breathe. His uncle stumbled to his knees, face ashen, and then he fell over face first onto the stone bridge. Kili found that he’d frozen in place, unable to do anything except stare.

Screams from those who’d only wished his uncle greetings not moments before finally pulled him from his stupor. He whipped his head up to the alcove, but the archer was gone. There was nothing he could do about it now: he flew to his uncle, reaching him long before anyone else. Guards were streaming from the opposite side of the walkway, but Kili knelt and put a hesitant hand in front of Bilbo’s face.

The short, pained breath he felt made him want to weep. Bilbo was alive. His uncle was _alive_. He let tears of relief pool in his eyes but forced his joy down as the guards came by. Every single one of them looked stricken, and Hilon, the highest dwarf in the Guard beneath Dwalin, finally spoke first. “Is he…?”

Kili nodded. “He’s dead,” he choked out, and Hilon shut his eyes in grief. He could feel Bilbo’s breath stutter just so against his arm, but he made no sound or movement. This hadn’t been the plan: the plan had been for Bilbo to be all right, for them to catch the assassin in the act and quickly trail it back to Dekir and Rutar.

But the arrow had changed everything. Kili could only hope both of his uncles would forgive him for it.

“We should remove him to a quiet place-“

“Let me,” Kili said, swallowing hard. “I…I will tell the King.”

Soft weeping and grief echoed around him from the bottom of the mines upward. Kili carefully didn’t jar the arrow and lifted Bilbo into his arms. Bilbo was limp and lifeless, and it was terrifyingly too real. If his uncle, his _friend_ , was really gone…

He didn’t remember the walk back up to the royal halls. People stared in mute horror as he ascended to their chambers, Bilbo’s silent body hanging in his grasp. Someone opened doors; he didn’t know who. He thought he nodded in thankfulness, but he wasn’t entirely certain.

All he knew was that today, which had already been horrible enough, had just gotten even worse, and it was only going to go downhill from there.

 

There were many things that Thorin was certain he’d remember for all his life. The birth of his nephews. The day Smaug came to Erebor. The day he’d received his coming of age braid. The moment Azog had held his grandfather’s head aloft. The day he’d met Bilbo, the day he’d cast Bilbo out, the feel of Bilbo’s hands in his when they’d been married, finding Bilbo on Mount Doom, the braid in Bilbo’s hair.

And now, the sight of his husband, dead and limp, in his nephew’s arms, would be seared into his mind for all eternity.

He thought he made a noise, he didn’t know. Kili’s face was grim but not overcome with grief, and for a moment, their plan, their intention, none of it came to mind. All he could see was Bilbo, head lolling lifelessly against Kili’s chest, the arrow still straight in his back. The heart, they’d aimed for the heart, and Bilbo was _gone_.

Kili laid him down reverently on the bed, on his side, in deference to the arrow. A hand steadied him – Dwalin – and Thorin realized he was trembling. But how could he stand motionless when his husband was dead-

Without hesitation Kili ripped the arrow from his back. Even as Thorin began to bellow in rage and grief, Bilbo sucked in a deep breath and finally opened his eyes. “Sweet Eru that _hurt_ ,” Bilbo whimpered, rolling his shoulders.

“It would’ve hurt a lot more if you hadn’t had the mithril armor on,” Kili said. “You’d have been dead.”

“Which now the whole kingdom thinks I am,” Bilbo said, sitting up. It was effortless, a sign of his life, and Thorin still wanted to weep.

Then his words sunk in. Kili wasn’t supposed to have brought him a dead husband. Bilbo was supposed to have walked in on his own, perhaps shaken by a near miss, but alive. He let himself breathe because this wasn’t how it was supposed to have gone. No wonder he’d been so stunned.

“Y’weren’t supposed to be dead,” Dwalin said, coming to the same conclusion Thorin had. “What happened?”

In answer, Kili held out the arrow. Though there was no blood on it, the mithril armor having caught the sharp tip, Thorin still didn’t want to look at it. But it caught his eye, nonetheless, and he wanted to snap it in two. The slender shaft, the careful feathers at the end, the slim tip-

This wasn’t a dwarven arrow. With bewilderment he looked up at his nephew who looked more furious than he’d ever seen him before. “It’s Elven,” he growled. “It’s _Legolas’s_ arrow, the one he gave to me as a wedding gift.”

“What?” Bilbo said, eyes wide. “Why would they-“ And then he stopped. He covered his eyes, his hand shaking. “Oh please no.”

“They set ‘em up,” Dwalin snapped. “They set ‘em all up. Take Bilbo out, remove the elves-“ He stopped, eyes widening in horror. “Dernwyn-“

“As soon as I realized what was happening, I sent Legolas and Tauriel to Dernwyn and Holdred,” Kili said. “They’ll keep them safe. But I lost sight of the assassin in the meanwhile.”

Nothing had gone according to plan, and the assassination attempt had simply spiraled out of control. But Bilbo still breathed, could still laugh and smile and _live_ , and for that, Thorin was willing to take about anything. “You did well,” Thorin said, clasping a hand to Kili’s shoulder. If Kili felt his hand trembling, he made no mention of it. “You did very well. Go, find your brother, get to the others.”

“Did they know you were bringin’ Bilbo back up here?” Dwalin asked. Kili gave a short nod. “Good. They’ll come up, no bets there. Lookin’ forward to introducin’ ‘em to Grasper and Keeper.”

His axes would be looking forward to meeting Dekir and Rutar, too. Kili nodded again, but looked back to Bilbo, his anger falling for the first time since he’d come in. Bilbo gave him a gentle smile. “I’m all right,” he promised. “Bruised, not dead, thanks to you. You did good; I’m proud of you.”

Kili took a deep breath and gave a short smile back. He stepped to the door, then stopped, and ran back to the bed, wrapping Bilbo in his arms. Bilbo didn’t even hesitate to enfold Kili in his embrace. 

How Kili had managed to watch Bilbo fall, Thorin didn’t know. Perhaps his nephew had more strength and wisdom than even Thorin, for Thorin would’ve dropped the plan entirely to save himself from having to watch Bilbo ‘die’. He couldn’t have done it.

A moment later, and Kili was racing out the door to his husband and sister. As soon as it shut behind him, Dwalin immediately let out a sigh and cursed. Thorin couldn’t help himself any longer and moved to his husband. His beautiful, alive husband, who was still sitting up, longing in his eyes. If he thought he was terrified, Bilbo must have been _desperate_ , knowing someone would try and kill him.

And he’d done it anyway.

Before he reached Bilbo, however, there was a loud pounding on the door. Thorin clenched his fists. “Go,” Bilbo said. “You can do this.”

He hoped he could, at least. “Dwalin, the grapes, if you please,” Bilbo asked next, and before Thorin could question it, Dwalin had given him the whole fruit bowl. Bilbo began immediately crushing the dark red grapes against his tunic, right above his heart, and the stain spread, looking too much like a blood smear.

Bilbo caught his gaze and gave him as much a smile as he could. _I’m right here._

Thorin nodded. _Stay that way._ Then he opened the door just as Dwalin settled the fruit bowl back on the table and Bilbo laid down to play dead.

Two members of the Council were there, older members that Thorin knew admired Bilbo’s political savvy, and behind them was Mekir, and behind him was Dekir and Rutar. All of them looked solemn, though one of the older members, Nadr, looked _hopeful_. “Is he…truly…?” he asked

“If you mean if my husband was slain, then yes, he was,” Thorin said, trying to control himself. How many had turned against him, against Bilbo?

But Nadr’s face fell moments later, and Thorin realized he’d been hopeful for better news. “The whole kingdom’s filled with the tragedy,” Mekir said, shaking his head. “He was a good man. From one widower to another…I’m so sorry, Thorin.”

Dekir looked almost annoyed at his father’s kindness. Mekir obviously wasn’t involved in his son’s plot, then. For a moment, Thorin’s heart broke for Mekir: a good dwarf who’d lost his wife and would soon lose his son. Though perhaps he’d already lost Dekir, in a way.

Then Nadr glanced up, as if just realizing something. “Can you hear us?”

Mahal. He sought for an answer, but his mind and heart were too scattered. In the end, Dwalin came forward. “Aye, just this morn. He’d hoped to tell Bilbo the news, once he realized, and for the first words he heard to be that his husband was murdered…”

Perhaps he should make Dwalin a politician: his friend had the knack for it. The dwarves before him muttered apologies again, but Thorin waved them off. Dekir and Rutar were looking too gleeful, and it was past time to end this. “Are you content now, Dekir?” he asked, and Dekir froze. All the dwarves looked to him.

“I…I beg your pardon, your majesty?”

“You seem to be at peace with my husband’s death. Perhaps you can teach me your secret, as I have found no peace or joy in it at all.” _Breathe, love,_ he could almost hear Bilbo say, and the thought of his husband breathing behind him was soothing enough.

Dekir stepped forward with Rutar, and arrogance and pride were so prevalent in his eyes that Thorin felt ill. This _dwarfling_ truly thought himself above the rest. “You will find peace, in time,” Dekir said. “Especially when you rid your mountain of the filth that killed him.”

“Oh, yes, I will,” Thorin swore darkly. “Did you see who did it?”

“It was one of the elves,” Dekir said, as if the line had been practiced. “It was their arrow that pierced your husband’s heart. Everyone saw it.”

“Did they?” Dwalin rumbled, his boots heavy on the floor as he moved in closer. Dekir seemed to be considering the option to step back behind the other dwarves. “For as far as I know, the arrow struck him in the back. Only those who were close enough would’ve known where it hit…or if you knew where it was aimin’ for in the first place.”

Thorin watched as the realization dawned on the young dwarf: they knew. His plot had fallen through. And it was over.

With a snarl he suddenly shoved the other Council members out of the room, leaving Rutar to slam the door shut. “I didn’t want to do this,” Dekir said, almost apologetically, as he pulled his two blades from his belt. “But you’ve sullied the good name of dwarves everywhere. You allowed in those dirty tree-lovers-“

“One of whom is wed to _my son_ ,” Thorin snapped. “They are a good people, and saved many lives on the way to Mordor.”

Dekir glared at him. “’Mordor’. Everyone talks about ‘Mordor’. And it’s all lies! I don’t doubt your part you played: of course it would be a dwarven king, no matter how misguided he is, to lead a host of men and dwarves to rattle the Black Gates. But there is _no way_ a small, pathetic _hobbit_ , one you rightfully _banished_ , got into Mordor to destroy the One Ring.”

“My banishing him was a wrong I sought to right before it was too late for me to do so,” Thorin said, gritting his teeth. Dwalin had a tight grasp on his two axes, and Rutar’s blade was long and thick. Orcrist was at his side, and he unsheathed his blade, enjoying the fear that Rutar showed in his eyes. Dekir said nothing but tightened his fists. “And _Bilbo_ is neither small nor pathetic. He saved Middle-Earth, saved _you_ , and yet you moved to strike him down.”

“He’s defiled the great race!” Dekir shrieked, and his blades sang through the air. Thorin blocked them both with ease, Dekir’s rage making him sloppy. Dwalin moved in with his axes, and Rutar was there to meet him. Thorin threw Dekir off and swung his blade around, fury singing in his veins to cut him down _now_ , but Dekir caught Orcrist easily and repelled him. Rutar seemed to be holding his own against Dwalin, an exceptional feat.

Pounding against the door told him that help had arrived, but the dwarven lock would hold, and only Dis had an extra key for emergencies. Bilbo had the other key-

_Bilbo_. Bilbo had no weapon, was utterly defenseless as he remained motionless on the bed, and if Dekir found out he was still alive-

His hesitation was only a moment, but it was enough. Dekir caught him across the chest, striking his heavy cloak and sending him to the ground. “Thorin!” Dwalin shouted, and Rutar pinned him back against the wall, blade hard against his neck as Dekir advanced on Thorin. That wasn’t going to be enough to hold him back in a bit: nothing stopped Dwalin when someone he cared about was in danger.

Thorin held up a hand, just ever so slightly. _Hold._ Dwalin snarled but remained still. Dekir’s strike was a mild sting, nothing more, as the cloak had taken the brunt of the attack. Perhaps the thick fur was worth something, after all.

Dekir pointed both blades at him. “You’re a good king,” he said. “One of the greatest. But you’ve allowed poison to ooze into the kingdom. Allow us to purge Erebor, and you will be allowed to live.”

Then he hit the ground, one of his blades falling from his grasp as he groaned in pain. Bilbo held one of the broken chair legs in his hands like a sword, blood on the end from where he’d struck Dekir across the head, and he was panting heavily. “Don’t you _dare_ touch _my husband_ ,” he said, voice dangerously low.

Rutar charged him with a yell, blade up high to cut him down. Bilbo ducked down low and jammed the leg into Rutar’s gut, sending him stumbling backwards, coughing and choking. Thorin absurdly thought that Dwalin had taught Bilbo an odd sort of fighting technique, but it came to mind that this wasn’t a technique, it was pure adrenaline and survival. If there was any training to be found, it was in his stance and the way his hands held onto the chair leg.

Thorin caught Orcrist and swung it high just as Dekir went to strike Bilbo down. He used Dekir’s surprise and pulled him off balance. Once, twice he struck, the clanging nearly drowning out the pounding and the yelling from beyond the door. The door. “The door!” Thorin yelled to Bilbo.

Three things happened at once. Bilbo ran for the door, and Dwalin ran to cover him. Rutar made a dive and shoved himself and Dwalin against the wall, leaving them both slumped on the ground. Dekir swung his blade not at Thorin, but at Bilbo, and managed to catch the tip at Bilbo’s throat. Bilbo came to a complete halt, and Thorin froze.

Dekir gasped for air, blood seeping into his hair, but kept his blade steady. “Back this way, _Halfling_ ,” he managed, and Thorin began to lunge forward. The blade pressed against Bilbo’s throat, drawing a short line of blood, and Bilbo hissed. “On your knees,” Dekir ordered, and Thorin carefully settled down to his knees. A quick glance at Dwalin showed him and Rutar still out against the wall.

Slowly Bilbo moved away from the door. So close. He’d been so _close_. There was no pounding anymore, no sounds at all. He could only hope they’d gone for Dis and the key, or something, _anything_. Anything to help Bilbo, to keep Dekir away from slitting his throat.

“With this blade, I will save Erebor,” Dekir said. He pulled the blade tight, impossibly tight, against Bilbo’s throat, forcing Bilbo’s head higher until his whole neck was exposed. Thorin could feel Orcrist burning in his palm, begging to be used, to save Bilbo from the execution-

Mahal, the _execution_.

Thorin was going to watch him die.

Bilbo somehow managed to meet his gaze, and his eyes were filled with fear that was trying to fade into acceptance, and Thorin felt as if he’d be sick. “Let him go,” he begged, his voice rough. “Dekir, let him _go_. I would give you all the gold you could want-“

“I have no want of gold,” Dekir said. “My greatest reward would be this…this _traitor_ , this _filth_ , gone from Erebor. That is the greatest gift you could give me.”

Bilbo twitched when the blade broke through skin, and small rivulets of blood began to slide down his neck. He met Thorin’s eyes once more and slowly moved his hand. The fist opened to an open, cupped palm, and Thorin swallowed hard at the sign. _I love you_.

Thorin carefully opened his own palm: his heart, always Bilbo’s, always. _I love you too._ Of everything he’d ever wanted Bilbo to know, when the end finally came, it was that above all else. He would never let Bilbo believe he was alone again.

The blade swung. Thorin fought to keep his eyes open, to remain with Bilbo until the end.

It kept swinging out, and he stared as Dekir’s eyes rolled up and into his head, and couldn’t help but watch as the dwarf hit the floor, blade landing harmlessly on the ground. Only then did he catch sight of the other dwarf. He was tall, almost the height of a man, and he was nothing but a mass of muscle beneath his large frame. Something about him teased at Thorin’s memory, but all he cared about was the thick and large fist he was lowering from where he’d struck Dekir.

“Beggin’ your pardons, your majesties,” the dwarf said with two bows to Bilbo and Thorin. “Came to give my thanks and, well, wanted to lend a hand.”

Thorin turned wildly to the door, which was now open. Beside it on the floor, lowering his arm, was Dwalin. He looked winded and there was blood dripping from a wound on his head, but somehow, he’d managed to get to the door. He gave Thorin a slow nod of grim satisfaction.

“Thanks?” Bilbo asked, his voice high pitched with what Thorin had to assume was adrenaline. “For…?”

The dwarf frowned. “Saved my life, his majesty did,” he said. “Haven’t had a chance to give m’thanks. Would’ve died down in the mine if he hadn’t done what he did.”

The miner. The miner from the collapsed cave that he’d shoved ahead into the exit. Thorin wasn’t certain whether he was going to laugh or cry or if he’d just do both, and right now, that seemed highly likely. “I think you’ve given thanks to me enough,” he managed.

“Y’find a new job?” Dwalin asked him, voice slurred.

The dwarf shook his head. “Might have one, but I’ve no kin to support, and others do, so it should go to them before me.”

“No need to worry, y’got one now.” Dwalin let out a sigh and rested his head back against the wall. “Welcome to the Guard. Just give m’yer name.”

The dwarf looked ecstatic. “Dril, name’s Dril. Can’t thank you enough, Captain,” he said. “I really can’t. I can start any time.”

“Good. First job: help m’get these two traitors down to the dungeons. Actually, help m’up first.”

Thorin would’ve paid more attention, truly, but Bilbo was teetering where he stood, and stumbling over to Thorin. Thorin all but dragged Bilbo in and held him as he knelt on the floor, feeling Bilbo lean all his weight against him. Every breath he felt was a gift, and he pressed his forehead against Bilbo’s. Alive. Mahal, Bilbo was _alive_.

“Husband,” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin cupped his husband’s face and reveled in the warmth he found.

“Beloved. My _beloved_.”

Even when the others came in, even when Ori ran to Dwalin and held him as if the world had gone up in smoke, even when Fili and Kili raced for Bilbo, Thorin didn’t let go. 

 

“I wish you’d let me sentence them and had not gone yourself.”

“I had to. You know I did.”

Thorin grunted but said nothing else. Bilbo just let him be. Truthfully, he hadn’t been thrilled with going to the sentencing, either, but not showing would’ve suggested fear.

It had been a solemn affair. Mekir’s first trial had been for his son and nephew, and Bilbo had felt his heart break for the dwarf. Dekir and Rutar had been found guilty of attempted murder and assassination, and had only been allowed a reprieve from immediate death for telling the court who the assassin was. Nori had brought him in soon enough, and the dwarf’s battered appearance had been easily explained just by looking at Bofur and Nori’s satisfied expressions. He’d been sentenced to a quick death by the Guard, and not a single dwarf had argued it.

Sentencing Dekir and Rutar hadn’t been as clean cut. Mekir had given the final decision to Bilbo, much to Dekir’s sudden horror. He’d obviously anticipated his father working to spare him, and the knowledge that he hadn’t had brought true terror to the dwarf’s face. All eyes had turned to Bilbo.

Balin and Thorin had both counseled him as to what decisions he could make, within the court, but Bilbo had already known his choice. “You are henceforth banished from every dwarven city that was, is, and shall be established. You may make your living among the men, if they will suffer you. If news of any ill deed caused by you reaches any dwarven city, you will be tried without mercy.” He’d cleared his throat and settled his gaze firmly on Dekir. “May you know what it feels like to be ‘small’, ‘vile’, and ‘easy pickings’.” He wished it had felt better to repeat Dekir’s words that had been thrown at him too many times already. But all it had done was leave a small stone in the pit of his stomach.

If the gazes of the company were any indication, they’d all understood the relevance of Bilbo’s carefully chosen words. Dwalin had looked ready to strangle Dekir where he stood before the throne, and Thorin had barely held on to his rage. Even Balin had looked murderous, and Bilbo had pointedly ignored looking at Ori, Fili, or Kili. He’d known what they would’ve looked like.

But now, now he was back in their rooms, ones that seemed to have new furniture. He would’ve been more amused if he hadn’t been so exhausted. He shucked his royal jacket and tossed it over the nearest chair. “Next time this happens, I won’t go,” Bilbo said, then sank onto their bed with a groan. “They’re very tiring.”

“There will never _be_ another time,” Thorin said firmly. “Ever. And you are far too forgiving. They should have hung for their crimes.”

Bilbo hummed and let himself sink into the bed. Oh but the goose feathers felt divine, especially after standing at the throne for so long. Walking from the Shire to Erebor hadn’t been that dreadful on his feet. “Living with it’s worse,” he murmured. Truly, being banished was one of the worst things he could think of, to inflict upon someone, to cast them out from their kin.

A strong hand rested at the base of his spine and slowly worked upward. Bilbo let out a moan of appreciation, shivering when a second hand joined the first. “Don’t stop,” he said, but between his face being in the bed and those talented, wonderful hands turning him into syrup, he wasn’t certain whether his words had made it out or not at all.

The low chuckle told him that Thorin must have understood him. Each finger dug into tired muscles, loosening the tension and relaxing every inch of him. The hands rolled upward, higher and higher until they were gently massaging his shoulders and the back of his neck. He brushed over his left shoulder blade, and Bilbo winced.

Thorin stopped. “No, no, don’t stop, please-“

“I won’t hurt you,” Thorin said firmly, but his hands stayed on Bilbo’s back. Progress. “Are you still sore?”

“It’s bruised, the arrow didn’t pierce skin, just bruised, I swear, please don’t stop.”

After a moment, Thorin’s hands began moving again. “Oh thank Mahal,” Bilbo mumbled, and Thorin snorted in amusement. As much as Bilbo appreciated the gentle side of his husband, his muscles adored his stronger hands, soothing away the soreness with ease.

Thorin had been nothing but gentle with him lately. All of them had, and if Bilbo hadn’t known why, he would’ve been highly irritated with them all. As it was, he’d only snapped once, when Thorin had offered to carry him to their main room. He was willing to let them cling and be far too protective: he’d done the same with Thorin after his husband had lost his hearing. He’d nearly _died_ , so their urge to protect was understood and mostly allowed. But he sincerely hoped that now that the trial was done, they could all get back to normal.

“Have I…ever told you about Frerin?”

The quiet voice matched well the gentle hands still moving on his back. But it was the words that made Bilbo wake up. “What?”

“My brother. I didn’t know if I’d…ever brought him up.”

Slowly Bilbo pushed himself up. Thorin looked oddly vulnerable, after having looked so regal earlier in the throne room. He’d been stern and unforgiving, as if made of stone.

But here, he almost seemed to be breakable, as if the memory of his brother would shatter him.

Bilbo tugged his husband onto the bed to sit beside him. “Dis has spoken of him, a time or two,” he said. “More blonde than brunette, I was given to believe.”

“Darker blonde than Fili,” Thorin confirmed. “Much more mischievous than either of my nephews.”

“And you were a perfect dwarfling,” Bilbo drawled, and Thorin let out a surprised chuckle.

“Actually, Dis usually started it with a dare, which she, of course, never took part in. She always left me and Frerin to get ourselves in trouble. Which we did.”

“I imagine you ran through the halls of Erebor like a wild thing, much like Kili does.”

“I did, yes,” Thorin said, and he was smiling now, obviously lost in memory.

Bilbo leaned against his husband’s shoulder and felt Thorin’s arm come up around him. Always there to protect him, to keep him safe, to hold and cherish him. He smiled. “What brought that up?”

Thorin took a deep breath. “I feel as if there are shades here, in Erebor. Though he didn’t perish here, I still imagine that I see him in various halls. I…meant to tell you, much sooner before today. I didn’t mean to keep him from you.”

“I haven’t told you every memory that I have, though, either,” Bilbo said. “I knew about Frerin, and Dis told me that he’d died fighting at Moria. I figured you’d tell me, when you were ready. And I was right.”

Thorin turned and blew across Bilbo’s head, making his curls go everywhere. “Stubborn dwarf,” Bilbo muttered, trying to put his hair back.

“Insufferable hobbit,” Thorin volleyed back, then laid a kiss on Bilbo’s head. “The only one I would ever call beloved.”

Bilbo smiled. “I love you.” It seemed so simple a phrase, but it was true, and he would never tire of saying it, of hearing it spoken back to him.

And when Thorin held his hand over his heart, moved it in a circle, then offered it to Bilbo with an open palm, Bilbo moved to press a kiss to his husband’s cheek. His husband, who could still hear, who was still alive and here with him. Bilbo was alive, Dernwyn, Legolas, and Tauriel were safe, and those responsible for the fear and pain were forever gone. Erebor still stood, and those within it were grateful for Bilbo’s life and Thorin’s continued kingship.

He drifted off to sleep, completely missing Thorin moving him down to the bed and settling beside him, arm wrapped around him to protect him even in dreams.


End file.
